Four Years Later

 

My Daddy was a great man. I say that with as much humility as I can, but he truly was of greatness. He was one of those people that chose simplicity because in simplicity there is kindness. There is warmth. There is love. He chose those things even though he had the mind of a genius, lighting wit, a star-appeal personality, and a very handsome face. There he is... sitting on the porch steps of the house he and my mother built with their bare hands after a long day of work outside. He's not smiling (which he did quite often), rather he's been caught in the solitude of his thoughts. He's undoubtedly mulling over the places he could have gone or the titles he could have held. But it seems he wanted to be a big fish in a small pond. Not because of his ego, but because he genuinely loved helping people. In a small pond, he had more chances to help and give of himself in the most meaningful of ways. Granted, he had his problems, and I'll tell you about those later. Right now, I just want to talk about how much I love him and how much I was shaped by him.

When Daddy died, it seemed everyone had a story to tell about how he had let them know in some way that he was fine, he was watching over us, and he was happy, except for me. It's been almost four years since we held his hands and watched him cross over, and I have had nothing but haunting dreams about the almost four year battle he waged against the consuming blackness that is cancer. I have had dreams that he was there, but he was sick. The house they lived in, the house of my youth, was in shambles, down to the frame and subfloor, and he was bed-ridden. I've dreamt he was skin and bones and being helplessly pulled along a dusty trail in a wagon. I've dreamt I found him in the bottom of a shower, shrunken, shivering, and drowning in the steady stream of the showerhead in his blue cotton pajamas. I have been relentlessly haunted by the memory and depth of the process of losing him, and until now I haven't been visited by anything hopeful in regards to his passing. Anything that felt like him.

A few weeks ago I felt like he told me why he hadn't worried about me. He knows I think like he does. I have an analytical mind and a good sense of humor. I love to help people and animals, and I would rather be able to help people in need than have all the money in the world. He knew that I wouldn't worry whether he was okay in the afterlife. I understand that the things he did for people are the chiefest of commandments and the greatest good we can do while on Earth. Losing him would prepare me to be strong for others during this magnitude of loss, and he knew that would make me feel connected to him. But I needed a visit of my own. I know that he is fine now, and I know that he is at peace. I needed him to acknowledge me and the pain that I feel in not having him around. It sounds selfish when I say that, but I grew up being comforted by him. I needed him to tell me that he sees my grief, and that he has never left my side. The grief I experienced while he was dying, when I saw his spirit being broken, when I saw his body give way to the disease, that grief was felt as he grew sicker and sicker. The grief I feel now is a desperate ache of missing him, and quite honestly, it's about me not being able to cope with the fact that he's not physically here anymore.

Well, until lastnight. Almost four years later, he decides to visit me. In my dream, I was at the Hackberry Community Center for some reason, and there was a party going on there. I was with John, and a lot of people I know from my home town were there. A lot of people I don't know were also in attendance. Daddy walked up to me out of nowhere and gave me a big hug. He was rosy-cheeked, walking upright, and dressed like I remember him. He was well. I immediately broke down in tears.

"Daddy!" I exclaimed through a wavering voice. "I've missed you so much."

"Hey, Julie Girl. I've missed you, too."

"Why did you wait so long?" I asked, almost in a whisper.

Without answering, he turned to the person next to us whom I don't remember. "This is my daughter. I haven't seen her since I died. But I see when she composes a text to my phone and doesn't send it. I see when she writes letters to me and stories about me in her journal. I've sat and watched her cry, and you wouldn't believe how much she misses me. I have the best kids in the world." His blue eyes looking deep into my own, he finished with, "I'm proud."

Turning to me, he gave me one last squeeze and that big smile of his, and he was gone. Just like that. But just like that, I am changed. Even though I desperately miss him still, I know he knows how much I love, respect, and appreciate him, and how much I know I've learned from him. I am SO much like him, and I needed someone like me to know the depth of my pain. I needed to feel like someone connected with what I feel in every way. And so I say to him...

Thank you, Daddy, for that visit. I'm not sure what the semantics are like in going from dimension to dimension, but thank you for giving me that. Thank you for telling me that you're proud. Proud. It still makes my breath catch in my throat. Next time, try not to wait four years. It wouldn't freak me out if you visited me from time to time and told me something I needed to hear. You are my Daddy, and even though you don't have any skin, it doesn't mean I need you any less. I love you.

Julie Girl

Treat Jar

Hi. I haven't been here in a while. I've been sick and busy and depressed. Not the clinically depressed kind of depression where I need medication to keep me from jumping off the ledge. Just the worn out, I can't focus on anything but making myself feel good kind of funk. Anyways, I feel like I'm getting better, and I'm starting to bounce back some. I've missed you guys.

When I started this blog, I was afraid I would limit myself to a single topic with this blog title. I kind of did, but then I took the stance of, "I don't give a shit. I'm going to write what is amusing to me." This post deviates from my normal protocol, and it is about me and a typical day in my household.

Hubs and I are building a house. Well, we will be. As soon as the slab is poured. Hopefully next week if the weather keeps playing nicely. We have been tossing around the idea of getting a storage building for our glorious shit, so I thought this Thursday night after we finished "talking," I would just start packing. Huh. That'll freak him out. But it was just to get some shit out of the way and to go through all the stuff I'd like to throw away. I was in a bad mood, and I like to do this in a bad mood because I'm hardly emotionally attached to anything at a time like that. Usually I'm just like, "Fuck this trinket. We won't even like each other in a couple of years and I'll be storing this shit, and the bugs love to chew on stuff like this." or "Stick this piece of shit in here, maybe it will get bent out of shape or torn and I won't have to put it out at the new place. I can just say it got fucked in the move. But I'll say it nicely like 'I loved that exquisite piece of shit, but it didn't survive the move.'"

My Australian Shepherd, Sookie, started going a little nuts, so I knew it was time to go outside. I grabbed the treat jar with the liver treats in it. I have this weird habit of tossing things from hand to hand. I don't know why, but it's usually cylindrical objects like bottles of water. I use my right hand to throw it as hard as I can to my left hand from that distance. It's weird, but I'm owning it. Anyway, I tossed the treat jar from my right hand to my left, and I guess since it's square in shape and awkward when being sailed through the air, left hand missed and it just kept flying. I say I missed. I don't even think it registered to my left hand. In fact, if you were standing about ten feet in front of me, I bet it would appear I was just like, "Fuck this treat jar," and then just threw it to my left as if I were in a landfill. Still, I was kind of shocked when it hit the tile floor and shattered into a million pieces.

I cracked my rib coughing while I was so sick, and I swear it broke during another coughing fit I was awoken with one night. Needless to say, I was having a difficult time sweeping up the pieces. John came into the room to check and make sure everyone was alright and offered to sweep it up for me. But first he wanted me to look at something. "Here, come see this," he said. He was looking at some of his old sports memorabilia collection. So I sit down on the guest bed as he goes through the closet, "This is blah-de-blah's card when he went blah-de-blah. This guy was a nobody and then I blah-blah-blah signy-sign fucky-fuck card." This went on for like three minutes, and while I was interested in his collection and trying to be respectful, my mind was in another place. I think it was actually asleep. Then I just thought, "Crap. Treat jar." So I got up and went to get the broom and dust pan, and when I walked in there, Boo Boo (my elderly Pekingese) was finishing the last liver treat. I freaked inside. John came into the room again when he heard me dramatically scream, "Nooooooo!" I've included a picture of my Prince for effect.

Boo Boo

If you're soulless and for reasons that I just can't imagine don't have a dog, I will break this down for you. Liver treats are very soft, much like molding clay. I was certain shards of glass had stuck in the treats and therefore made their way into my tiny 10 year old dog's delicate digestive tract.

I looked at John and said, "He ate them all. He's fucked."

"Oh, shit." he replied.

So I said, "He's sleeping with us tonight."

John asked, "What are you going to do if something's wrong with him?"

"Uh, wake up and freak out." I retorted matter-of-factly, leaving off, "Then you're going to haul us to the vet." I would just be much too hysterical to drive.
I went to the bedroom, sat on the bed and put him on my rug, inspecting him for a little bit. He didn't seem to be displaying any signs of choking or anything like that. So I googled, "My dog ate glass." (Can I just mention as a side note - go type in the phrase, "my dog ate," and see if Google doesn't suggest a completely absurd list of topics.) The blogs suggested making him eat cotton. The following ridiculous exchange takes place between myself and Hubs:

"They said you can make them eat cotton because it surrounds the shards of glass, and they'll just poop them out without incident."

"How are you going to make him eat cotton?" John asked.

"Well, I could rub some cotton balls on my asshole." He gawked intently at me, so I felt the need to explain. "He loves the taste of his own asshole."

John blankly stared in my general direction as if to consider this idea. Not wanting to lose him, I was like, "Here. Rub them under your balls."

"I AM NOT DOING THAT." he replied, and got into the shower, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone to consider how fucked up this entire conversation was and the fact that it was all my idea.

I dismissed the cotton balls, not wanting to launch into an inner dialogue with myself about how weird I am to me. Instead, I poured Boo Boo a cereal bowl full of cheese doritos. So far, there are no signs of injury nor internal bleeding. My brain, however, could use a band-aid or two I'm sure.

What. The. Fuck?