Dad

They say that it hits younger caregivers harder than others. Well I believe it. I was a caregiver. I coached him through his last breath. I saw them giving CPR and let me tell you it’s not like it is in the movies. I then handed over the advanced directive that stopped it. I positioned his limp arm around me and imagined he was holding me despite the fact that he was gone. I watched the sunrise the first morning after he died. I helped arrange his funeral. I smiled and shook hands with friends and family. I read one of the readings in the service. And I have cried most nights since. I have seen a lot of doctors and they say I have a mood disorder. I’m on three different types of anti-depressants and I haven’t been able to sleep without some type of drug and even with them my sleep is intermittent at best. All this doesn’t even mention the horrible ways I coped with his diagnosis despite my stoic outer appearance when caring for him.

I seem to function best at work. It keeps me focused. My relationships there are surface level and that’s probably best. They know me as happy, energetic, efficient and responsible Joy and I would like to keep it that way.

My longest romantic relationship has been six weeks so I haven’t really been missing anything in that department, although the last guy I started dating quit on me when my dad was diagnosed. That situation was a little too heavy for a new relationship, and who knows it still might be.

Oh but work. I work at the American Cancer Society. Over forty times a day I pass by the desk where I took the phone call from my father telling me the news and my manager’s office where I went into hiding in order to weep. The patient service center that set us up with housing for out of town visitors is located in the same building and I see the specialist who helped with that at least weekly. She sometimes looks me in the eye and gives me a meek smile.

I absolutely love my job – I just wish it was in a different field. However, I have now invested five years of my life into cancer and I have the perfect background. After all, my mother is a survivor and my father died of it, it’s the perfect story for someone who works at ACS. But it’s not my motivation.; after all GIST and brain cancer are two of the least researched cancers. I work there because I love developing others, training others and this gives me the opportunity to do that.

It’s been almost a year. Am I supposed to be over this? Is it supposed to get better or as some people say “feel different?” because it feels the same to me. I want cry just as much as I did that first day I heard the news. The reason I don’t is because it popped blood vessels and gave me black eyes and I really can’t show up to work looking like that so I must show some self-control. I can hear him laughing and telling me stories.

Night-time is the hardest for me. Ever since I was little my father put me to bed. When I was very small he would tell me stories of him growing up and stories of him in Vietnam. Not the gruesome ones but stories of his buddies and the culture. As I got a bit older, despite being dyslexic, he read "Treasure Island" to me which helped start my life-long Pirate obsession. Then, in middle school, I went through a poker phase and he humored me by playing a game each night. Then in high school when I got into rowing he would give me backrubs every night. Now I have memories of him putting me to sleep and all I want is him to be here, him to pray with me at the end of the day.

I am so jealous of my older sister. She has such a great memory. She remembers absolutely everything. Most of my memories are made up of things people have told me about times when I was young. I’m a much more savor the moment type of person and tend to forget what has past. Most of the vivid memories of my dad are the ones since his diagnosis as those were the ones with heightened emotions and the most recent. These are also NOT the ones that I want to have with me. I want to remember the happy ones. So, I rack my brain trying and trying to remember others but they don’t come as easily. I remember surprising him last year for father’s day, walking the dogs with him, going to Houston with him for Christmas one year, staying up with him on long car rides navigating, delivering lemon curd dressed as an elf, but they are snippets. My sister remembers the whole story. Why didn’t we own a video camera!?!? Why didn’t I take more pictures!?!?

My dad and I were two peas in a pod and everyone knew it. We looked a like. We were both into sports. Both of our skills are developing people and managing projects. We both have the same humor and we both talk during movies in the same way. My mother and sister are carrots so we all go together, but I miss my pod-mate.

I hope I’m not letting him down. I miss him terribly. I wish I could get his advice about just a few more things.