3 years

This year, my two least favorite days fall on the same date: May 9th.

May 9th is Mother's Day this year. I am not affected my Mother's Day as was a little girl in school, where everyone made Mother's Day cards and crafts every single year. I made them too, and I gave them to my dad. From the time I was six on ... my dad WAS my mother. He cooked me dinner, sewed my clothes when they ripped, bought me pads/tampons when I got my period, took me shopping, helped out with my girl scout troop. While there were other women in my life for sure, my dad filled the mother role comfortably, and he did a pretty good job at it.

We never went to my mother's grave on Mother's Day, because it was too hard and painful for my dad. We didn't even really talk about her until I was much older - in high school or maybe even college. I am sure that a good dose of therapy would have helped me deal with things when I was younger - because if there is one thing my dad didn't teach me, it was how to deal with tough things. Luckily, he didn't chose to deal with things badly by drinking or doing any other harmful activities - he just sunk into a depression, lasting most of my adolescent and teenage years. Possibly the only thing that saved him was that I was still at home, and he had to take care of me. Instead of facing up to whatever it was that needed facing, I learned to simply pretend that everything was fine and to not actually deal with anything (something that I still struggle with today).

Despite my dad's depression and whatnot, he was an active father who spent a lot of time with me and obviously loved me immensely. He satisfied both parental roles pretty successfully and supported me in pretty much everything I wanted to do - whether he totally agreed with my decisions or not. We went on vacations. He came to every single orchestra concert I ever had. He took me to church when I decided I wanted to start going. We almost always ate dinner together, often going out to eat- because he hated to cook. He helped me look at and get my first car(s), fixing them when I was stupid, not killing me when I wrecked his. He knew my friends. He helped me pick a college, came and helped my sorority grill for Homecoming, and didn't complain or try to convince me otherwise when I decided to move to Honduras for a year.

Today marks three years since my dad died. He had a massive heart attack at work and was rushed to the hospital. I was in Honduras at the time and got a phone call from my sister when I was teaching. Immediately knowing something was wrong, and a little worried that what I feared the most was coming true, I rushed to call her back. (My dad had his first heart attack before I was born. He had many more mild ones throughout his life, and I always knew that someday he would have one that his heart couldn't handle. I was worried the most that he would die alone.) Two days later, I flew home. Two or three days after that, we disconnected him from life support. 36 hours later, he died - but he wasn't alone.

This year, Mother's Day falls on May 9th - the anniversary of my father's death. While I have dealt with his death in my own ways, true to form, I don't really talk about him or my mother that often. Blogging about it is one of the the only ways I am comfortable doing it, and it is my way of saying "Everything is NOT fine, but I am okay." And while losing someone that played such a vital role in my life can be excruciatingly hard, I know my dad would rather us celebrate the life he had, then cry over the life he lost. So instead of tears, I will celebrate by eating an ice cream sundae and watching a western. Here's to you dad.