Thursday would have been my dad’s 77th birthday. The day also marked two other significant events in recent years. It had been two years and a day since Dad had surgery to repair a broken hip, and one year and nine months since the day he passed away.
The first summer after Dad’s passing, I made frequent visits to his grave site. The cemetery where he’s buried is a beautiful and peaceful place, and just happens to be a few short miles from where I work.
I haven’t gone to visit Dad at all this summer. If you asked me, I would probably tell you that road construction near the office keeps me from easily getting there. The reality is, it’s been a hard year, and for a while, I felt a sense of anger with my dad that I couldn’t really explain. I couldn’t bring myself to visit. The anger has finally passed, but believe me, I’ve felt horribly guilty for being angry with a man who is no longer here to defend himself.
Deep down, I know the anger was a normal part of the grieving process. I also realize it stemmed from a sense of helplessness. Dad’s gone, living the high life in a perfect place. I’m still here, in a place that often feels like a cesspool of human misery, having to witness my mom’s daily struggle with her health, loneliness, and sense of isolation. Mom took care of Dad through all of their years, helping keep him alive through issues with his diabetes, heart condition, and kidney failure. She saw to his needs until his dying day, even as her own health was failing significantly. On my worst days, I’ve wanted to know why Dad couldn’t have been stronger, healthier, and why he couldn’t have stuck around to support her through her pain and her fears.
Maybe I’ve been angry with God. But for the good part of this year, it’s been directed at Dad.
Fortunately, I’ve managed to surface from that awful phase. Many mornings lately, before I leave for work, and while my brain is still somewhat quiet, I talk to Dad and apologize for being mad at him. I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ve cleared another hurdle.
I’ve reached the point in life when funerals have become a more common occurrence. I’m getting older. My family’s older generation is aging. I’ve had to learn to face the fact that none of us gets to stay here forever. It helps that so many friends are in the same place in life. We support each other. We’ve learned to see funerals and memorial services as the celebration of life that they’re supposed to be. My faith has matured to the point that I believe the life after this one is where it’s at, and we’ll all be reunited one day.
So I’m grateful this sense of calm came over me before Dad’s birthday on September 7th. That morning, I posted his picture on FaceB00k and sent some birthday love up to him. As I knew would happen, many of my friends and relatives saw the post, liked the post, “hearted” the post, or left some words of love. Throughout the day, I checked on the activity and saw Dad’s picture again and again.
Maybe that’s why I had the dream. I’ve been wanting to have the dream.
Not long ago, I was out with a few girls. We’d gone to a concert at the local casino, and afterwards sat at the bar talking about the thing we all had in common. We’d all lost a parent.
Around the table, they all talked about the signs they’d seen. One dad leaves dimes in strange places where his wife or daughter will find them. One mom frequently comes to see her daughter. She swears she’s even physically hugged her mom during these visits. I’m a bit skeptical, but who am I to judge? Maybe if you want something bad enough, it can feel true.
One of them asked me, “Has your dad come to visit you in a dream?”
He hasn’t, really. I may have seen him in a few dreams, but it never felt like a visit from him. Apparently, all of the other girls have had obvious visits with their parents. The realization made me sad. My dad probably didn’t want to visit me. I haven’t been very forgiving lately.
But the day of the FaceB00k birthday post, I thought about Dad a lot. I talked to him frequently, and apologized again. I looked at his picture over and over. And that night, there he was in my dream. Normally, if I even remember my dreams, they’re usually a bunch of nonsense. But this one was clear and felt real. I walked into a room, and there stood my dad. He looked just like he did during his better years, when his body was stronger.
I don’t remember that we said anything out loud to each other. I just walked into his arms and hugged him hard, at the same time, feeling completely pulled into his embrace. I wordlessly told him how much I love him and have missed him. He wordlessly told me that everything would be alright.
I woke up in the morning feeling a sense of relief that I haven’t felt in months. I have not been myself for a while, but suddenly, I felt as if I had finally come up for air.