Catching up with my father

Dad,
I don't know if there is an afterlife, but in this life, your birthday is coming up. A day I will celebrate by calling my sister and Ro Ro. And talk about how great a person you were, as a father, as a family man, as a brother and a son.

I drove by your house during my last visit to CT on the way to M's..The house looks good. The new owner kept your American flag flying. The big windows you loved to leave uncovered are still so--there's a large beautiful plant drinking in the sun and ... a cat condo, too. The man who bought your house understands it the way you did. I wanted you to know.

The year since you've gone has been a tough one. I"d always been able to confide in you, ask for your advice.  I've learned to fly a little blind but with the help of friends and beloved Ro Ro. And of course, Karl. Dad, he is my rock. A better man you could not have chosen for me. He loved you very much, and you inspired him, too. I really miss talking to you during the week, after work, and catching up. I especially miss our Sunday morning calls before Karl woke up. When we really talked about how things were going for you, how the cancer and treatment were doing, and handling side effects. I'm sorry I never asked you more questions, but I wanted any discussion of your cancer to be on your terms.

You'd be proud, Dad. After Ro Ro and I straightened up, cleaned and then staged the house for the realtor, I left on my sabbatical trip and accomplished some of what I could do. Part of me was devastated, but I know you'd want me out there, doing my thing.  Four months of travelling, ending up at a rental house on Sanibel Island, where I stayed alone for a week. Biking, walking, sitting on the beach. Drained. Empty.  Dad, that was the first time I really stopped to grieve, but I wasn't ready. I was still numb. After I got back to Minnesota, it hit me pretty hard. The estate business kicked in, and so I hit that, pushing my grief aside to get that work done. I know it's what you would have done.

The hardest day, after the funeral itself, Dad, was cleaning out your house. You'd already cleaned out Mom's stuff, but the house was still full of you. I found the love letters you wrote to mom; I never knew you were such a poet. Ro Ro knew, mom knew...they're beautiful, dad. Thank you for loving mom so much for so long through all the stuff that happened.  I needed help with the house, so Karl and I called Dion and company, and they came to help. It was hard to get going, to figure out how to begin the process of throwing things of Yours away. I took all of your clothes to a consignment store; the furniture was also taken for consignment. Michelle had a really hard time with this, so she was only in and out.

Each time I left your house, I kissed the front door like I was kissing your cheek. I never quite knew when the last time would be. It was July. That was the last time. Your house sold in November.  I saw it just recently, in March. The first and only house you bought and ever lived in. The house you really loved. The house I spent a semester with you the year before you died. The house we drove you away from for the last time as we took you to the hospital just after Christmas. The quietest ride in our family's history. We all knew, and wanted you to talk only if you wanted. We didn't know what to say. And thank god Vidya met us there.  How much more you remember,  I'll never know. The drugs, the morphine, the anxiety and ultimately, the life left your body. We got the call and came immediately.

So during this year you've been gone, I haven't done so well. I've poured myself into work--that you'd like--:o) both at the university at for your estate, but I've had an awfully hard time keeping my spirits up and my health reasonable. I've lost 30 pounds and am struggling to eat. I have worked for months to get to one meal a day and I think it's working. My health has been suffering, too, but I'm working to find some answers and I"m not giving up. After finishing the bulk of the estate work, I finally let myself start grieving, and it has been a time of deep, raw sadness that had to wait its time--a long time--until the important work was complete. And then I let myself go. Go to work, go home, go to pieces. I tell you this just so you know, not to complain to you up in the ether...

Over a year later, you are missed more than ever. Your furniture rests easily in our house, and the kitchen will at last look the way you imagined when you visited: beautiful, natural maple cabinets and drawers, cool dark countertops.  There are mornings when I wander around my house, opening drawers of the furniture from your house, and smelling Your house inside. Sometimes I cry, but other times it's just nice.  Dad, it's a rollercoaster for me. I should be, at 45, easily capable of moving forward, but honestly, the heart of me doesn't feel like I can without leaving you behind. And I can't do that, Dad. Leave you behind.

A year after you passed away, I am still trying to figure out how to move on and keep you with me.
I have good days, moments of joy and happiness. All of which I would normally have shared with you. You never taught me much about grief. I think I know why. How could anyone tell the story of grief? Dad, you saved and protected me from so much while you were well, even while you were sick. Grief has been a lesson I've  learned on my own. Decidedly so. We should all learn it on our own.  And you raised me to be a strong, independent woman. And so I am. But one who suffers daily, still, from your passing. A year later, Karl and I are stronger than ever, and have renewed our vows though living them. Life is very precious, and there are few people in the world who really matter. You showed me that--your family, soul-friends. I am working hard to get to know Michelle better; I don't know if she'll ever open up to me. She is drowning in her grief and won't let me help her.

I want you to know that I'll be singing in Carnegie Hall next year ; our trio is under management in New York City. And the concert will be mostly in English. You'd probably still hate it, but every note, every phrase, every bow will be dedicated to you. By the time this concert happens, another year will have passed since you left us. I know you will be in my heart that night; for now, my heart is still broken. Heartstrings are slowly growing, reaching like tendrils from one side to the other, and the mending may be beginning.  The neurologist I am seeing is requesting an echocardiogram. I wonder what it will show. A hole? A malfunction? I wouldn't be surprised.

But still, I'm here, Dad, doing what I do and dreaming of the future, doing things to honor your name and your legacy. You were just such an amazing person. I'd known you 44 years, always knew you were there, and a year without you feels like a lifetime now.  But I'm hanging in there. Some days, barely, other days are wonderful. And I thank you for the wonderful days--a day you would have been proud of me for carrying on, or laughing out loud, or being kind to my kitties.  Losing you, the most devastating experience in my life, has brought me closer to simpler happiness, needing more affection, and closer to the real me--the sweet girl you always knew hid behind the hard shell of the competitive singer. This sweet girl still loves you a ton.