Life isn't fair

Fourth of July family outing to Fallingwater

Life isn't fair. I am about a week shy of closing on my first home and am reminded of his loss every day. I just finished writing my first book (Ebbs and Flows, available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble) and have a great life, but someone is always missing. In my book, I mentioned a story on Reddit that I resonated with, about the guy who wrote that his loved one would miss out on important milestones in his life: buying a house, having a family, and all the essential things going forward that will be missed. I look at how similar situations have affected friends of ours, as we are not alone in losing a husband and a father figure. My mom is not alone in this journey. I am not alone, but sometimes it sure feels that way. Not because our loved ones and friends haven't done enough for us, but because no one can ever replace my father. I wrote about how "you only get one" in a previous post. It has been a year and about seven months since I lost my dad. Not a day goes by when I haven't wished he were sitting beside me. I know everything happens for a reason, but this reason hurts.

Losing a loved one is challenging. It is more challenging when that loved one is a parent, especially a parent like my dad was to me. The impact he made on my life individually will always be unmatched. The life that he provided for me set me up for success throughout my life. I still feel his impact today. Had it not been for my dad, I wouldn't know the people who continue to surround us after his passing. The guy who does my taxes for me each year, Mark, and his wife, LuAnn, are two tremendous people. Mark and I get together to discuss my taxes each year. One day, Mark will have to teach me how to do them myself. I am reminded of my dad's impact by the people he picked to be close to him, and now those people are close to us.

It isn't easy to come to the family house once a week and be alone. Augusta is a great companion and housemate, but it is hard for me. Life isn't fair. I want to hear his voice one more time. I want to see him. I want him to be sitting next to me watching baseball while he is looking at his phone. I want to talk to him. I want him to know how much I love him and how much his presence meant to me all my life. I have discussed the spiritual part of this experience before, but this dream still stands out to me. I remember being in an office space somewhere, with my dad. I didn't recognize the office. I did recognize the clutter on the desk, files stacked to the ceiling, and my dad sitting at his desk with pen in hand, signing documents. Even though I didn't recognize the red-stained wood office space, this was how many of my dad's offices were throughout his professional life. Cluttered. During this dream, I told my dad how I wanted him to come home, because we missed him. My dad briefly looked up from his work and said, "As much as I would love that, you know I can't do that." That statement was the closure I needed. I think about that dream all the time. It reminds me that life isn't fair.

Where am I in my grief process? I am a mix between exhaustion, because I wish this process wasn't even something I have to verbalize, and depression. I accepted this the day he took his last breath. There wasn't anything I could do to prevent it, there wasn't anything I could do to change it, and I was at peace with the way it happened. The depression I feel is part of my grieving process. Coming to the family house and being alone while I cut the grass, do yard work, and do my laundry depresses me. He should be here in person to help. I told someone the other day that I miss my dad doing yard work; every morning, he was outside doing yard work before going to shower for work. When he came home, he was outside doing yard work again before and after dinner. With Augusta, yard work was much more enjoyable for both of them. He would pull weeds out of the ground and put them next to where he was sitting, and Augusta would come up, grab the weeds out of the pile, and shake the dirt out of them in my dad's face. Indeed a memorable sight that I wish I could see more of. As a retriever, she often retrieved items my dad needed for weeding. His gloves, mostly.

When I do yard work now, it isn't the same. I cut the grass when I got to the house for my weekend of dog duty, and it wasn't the same. It takes a village to help with the dog when my mom goes out of town, and it again reminds me that life isn't fair. I don't wish the pain that my mom and I have felt in this process on anyone, not even an enemy. Every day, I want my dad to be here physically and not spiritually. We aren't alone in this experience; we have friends, family, and a lot of dogs to keep us happy, but someone is always missing.

When I arrived in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, in February to go skiing, my first cousin Jimbo picked me up. As we waited for his son to get in, we drove down to the metropolis of Hayden, Colorado. During that truck ride, Jimbo gave me the talk that has become more frequent. He almost made me cry; tears were welling in my eyes, not because of the conversation itself, but because of how I thought this should be my dad giving me this talk. In a way, Jimbo played the part. He plays that part well. He told me, "You only get one father, but you can have a lot of mentors," and whether he realizes it or not, he is more than just a mentor to me.

I wouldn't be the person I am today without his guidance and help. If it weren't for his wife Karen, I would have been crying in the corner without any support when my dad passed. Instead, she made me laugh and comforted me. Together, the two of them have supported us in ways beyond imagination. I credit Karen and Jimbo for saving my life. Granted, it came in the form of some harsh love in a house they were remodeling, but it was what I needed to hear then. I was in a bad spot in life. I was dating someone who wrecked my life emotionally and mentally, and nearly destroyed my family too.

I flunked out of the one place that made me happy. I lost relationships far more than just my mother and father. I was acting like I didn't care about anyone or anything other than myself. Had it not been for this one-sided conversation, I would never have returned to college and graduated. I never would have gone to graduate school. I would never have gained their love and support, and I still have to this day. I don't say it nearly enough, but Jimbo has always been one of my heroes. I don't thank him as often as I should, but I wouldn't be in my current position if it weren't for him. He has been there for us since my father went to the hospital, and reminds me every day of why I look up to him.

Although this post has mainly been about why life isn't fair, I wanted to finish by mentioning the one person who has been through the most of this with me and who has stood by me while we grieve together—my mom. This shared loss has strengthened our relationship. If life were fair, we wouldn't be here. Even though I am on dog duty this weekend, the life my parents built for me keeps me going. I have my mom in my corner for every decision I have made. The house hunting process was arduous and stressful, but we kept saying that when the right house came, we would know. The right house came. We offered, and the offer was accepted. Now we have the task of painting the house, moving furniture in, and enjoying what my father's hard work has given me. With the love and support I have from my mother, we can continue to build our relationship and strengthen the bond between us. I am proud of my mother and the way she has handled this loss. It isn't easy. Life isn't fair. Having her and our family close by has made life manageable in the face of adversity and uncertainty.