One Year Later

We were told it takes a year.  Of course, at that time we couldn’t imagine what the next 12 months would hold, but we knew it wouldn’t be easy.  Every day would be a first.

One year ago today my husband’s dad, my second father for 30 years, and our kids’ grandfather lost his brave fight with a rare cancer.  True to his nature, he outlived the prognosis by several months with his positive outlook to live every day to the fullest.  He learned from a early age how precious and tenuous life is and made sure, for almost 60 years more, to make the most of the gift he’d been granted.

Dad’s legacy.

I think back to the advice we were given:  it takes a year.  What does that mean, really?  A year for the sadness to stop halting you in your tracks?  A year to return to life as it was before?

Perhaps we thought it meant something more profound than intended.  Because it does take a year to experience all the occasions Dad was always there for…but without him.  We’ve done all the holidays once.  All the birthdays.  The two weeks in summer we visit.  We’ve seen what here-on-out is going to be like.

It takes a year to fully experience that new reality but it doesn’t take a year to “return to normal.”  Because, as anyone who has had a loved one pass, this is a point of no return.  Life is altered, in a significant way.  My mother-in-law describes this as an emotional amputation; the loss is right there, all the time, and you learn to live in a new way.

The sadness won’t disappear.  We will always miss him.  We will always wish he could be with us for the life events, no matter how small.  We will always wish he were here to see his grandchildren grow up.

These feelings will never change.  They will never take a year to subside.  But in the last several months, we have learned to accept we will always love, miss and cherish the memories made with this amazing “original good guy.”

Semper fi, Dad.  We love you.

The flag we raised as part of Dad’s memorial. It can be seen for miles.