11.23.15
I remember the day so vividly. Every damn detail was dreadful, gut wrenching. Waiting, hour by hour with bated breath for news that would soon shatter my world.
I sat silently, on the drive down to Gillette Stadium for Monday Night Football. Because until I knew for sure, life must go on, right? I was nauseous. My head was spinning. I could barely breathe. I prayed. I begged. Lindsey, don’t assume the worst. Not yet. I gazed out the window, looked up at the sky. I felt him. No. It can’t be true. Don’t be silly. I checked in with Chris, again. Still nothing. I waited. And waited. And waited. We made one more pit stop, only yards away from our tailgate lot. How the hell do I go to a football game in this state of mind. Then the phone rang. I looked down. It was Jeffrey. This isn’t good. Please Jeff, tell me he’s okay. “Hello?” I choked back tears. Silence. “Dad died.”
We turned the car around and started the trek home.
Dad died. The words still echo within me. And the horror behind my voice as I shouted “NO. Shut the fuck up.” The pain that will forever live in my heart. It’s all still there. It’s all still so real. Yet, it’s so damn surreal.
My dad died.
The following morning my former husband found me lying outside, in my pajamas, on our back deck. Shivering. In tears. Because the only place I could feel his presence was outside amongst the breeze. For days, weeks even, I sat. Numb. Feeling robbed and alone. Days I questioned the purpose of all this. Why was he gone? Why am I still here? Wondering if I’d ever come back from this. His death broke me.
Yet, his death brought me here. Down a path I may have never otherwise taken. His death gave me no choice other than to put to the test the wisdom he instilled in me. It sent me running on a solo sprint to see what this was all for. He wouldn’t have left this world if he hadn’t already given us all he had, right? At least that’s what I tell myself. It’s what I need to believe in order to keep along the journey. And my god, the journey has been nothing short of wild. And tiring. Exhausting, rather. Stressful. Scary as hell. I’ve found that grief is a slow ache. One that continues to burn, no matter how much time has passed. Yet, along with grief. Along with pain. Along with sadness has come a new form of joy. Adapting to a new way of living. Along with grief has come a deeper understanding that I am not alone. That people show up, while others drift away. Along with grief I’ve been able to understand what I truly long for. In myself, in a partner, with family, friends. Grief has shown me that it’s more than okay to be picky with whom I choose to spend my time with.
Along with grief has come new love. New life. New memories. Exploration. Soaking in the precious moments just a little bit more. Grief has allowed me to take big risks, because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is too damn short. So, Daddio, here I am. Letting you live through me. Watching you come alive in little Waylon. Watching the way you connect me to those who are meant to be in my life. Watching you guide me as I walk, step by step. Little signs from you, countless signs, showing me that I am on the right path. That it’s okay. Always reminding me, remember who you are.
Four years later and I still go to reach for my phone to call you. And then it hits me again, like a ton of bricks. The realization steals my breath. I pause. My eyes well with tears. I smile. I recall a George-ism that would keep me trucking along. Four years later, I choose to honor all of the beauty you brought to this world. Off to our favorite beach I go. Awaiting the treasures you left for me to find.
Daddio, there is nobody on this planet like you. Truly, you’re one of a kind. One of the greats. The best there is. I love you. Always. I miss you madly.