Papa

I just missed him. My caffeine addiction prompted a stop at Starbs for a grande latte. Extra hot, extra shot, please. My Mom had just picked me up from the Phoenix airport, and we were en route to visit my Dad in hospice, who was dying from cancer. As we exited the drive-thru, the nurse called, “he doesn’t have much time.” She was wrong. He had no time. Gone upon our arrival. The shame re: that Starbs stop still lingers—the stolen moment of saying “goodbye” while he was still alive. 

That was six years ago today, September 16th, 2019.

I never announced his death on social media. Only a small circle of friends and family was informed. A funeral never arranged. Our goal: avoid the pending pity party and all of its attendees. Pity, a four-letter word in the home in which I was raised. “We’re so sorry for your loss.” And, “your Father was such a kind man.” I didn’t want to hear it. I tried to be strong and move on. I started a new job in a new city a mere two weeks later. Grief was not pleased that I refused to give it space, so it reared its ugly head in unforeseen places. One of my new colleagues asked the innocent question of, “What was he like?” Breath work, biting my lip, staring at the ceiling...ha! Nice try. Repressed emotions do not respond well to attempted control measures. I ultimately surrendered and sobbed before this stranger in a very sterile conference room in San Francisco.  

Like all of us, my Dad wasn’t perfect. He had a temper. Patience was not a virtue. Ask the man to wait more than 10 minutes for a table, and he’s gone before your name hits the list. One of the worst drivers I’ve ever known. So much so that I refused to be his passenger while pregnant with Peyton. My brother and I were adept at squeezing our eyes tight and bracing every body part in the backseat, only to be saved by the frantic slam of the brake, millimeters from the bumper before us. My Mother would roar, “Michael!” as a last-ditch effort to ensure a successful stop. I returned home one Summer from college to a new Honda Gold Wing in the garage, accompanied by matching helmets and built-in mics. It may have been the bravest moment of my Mom’s life as she threw her leg over the back and mashed her head into the helmet. Although they safely returned, she dove off the back while the cycle continued to roll up the driveway. My Dad’s ears still ringing from the screaming that occurred around every corner. The motorcycle was eventually sold, as riding solo was never his intent. 

My love of sport is 100% attributed to him. My Dad introduced me to tennis, coached every one of my softball teams, and was always a fan, even when I was a sucky soccer player. This pattern continued with Peyton. Watching her play ball was the highlight of his week. He was a lifelong learner, ultimately earning a PhD in education. My Dad would continue to teach others until his death at 73 years of age. While I was in high school, he was the director of technology for our school system, and I would feel such pride watching him walk the halls in his three-button suit. So handsome, smart, and strong. That’s my Dad. 

I miss you. I’m sorry that we never gave you the closure that you deserved—the opportunity for others outside our immediate family to say goodbye. I’m sorry that our fear of pity and the inferred weakness drove our decisions. Grief hurts, but it also has a magical way of bringing people together. Community amidst the emotional chaos. Refusing to share pain forces one to navigate grief alone, perpetuating its presence for many years to come. Shame continues to be my coffee buddy at every Starbucks visit.