Are you there, Dad? It's me, Lilyloolah
You're dying today. I'm so scared, Dad. I don't remember living without you in my life. Suppose I hate life from here? Suppose everyone wants to disassociate from me because I'm so disassociated from myself? Please help me, Dad. Don't let the world be too horrible. Thank you.
You died around 1:28 p.m., or at least that's when I wrote in my journal. I knew it was going to happen as soon as I woke up. I knew because I spent the entire day before at Hospice with Mom. At 8:54 p.m. on January 20, 2021, the Hospice care workers said you might die that night. This didn't come as a surprise.
Do you remember when Mom said, "I love you," and you gave her an ever-so-slight lip raise?
Various Hospice staff had been telling us about your imminent death all month. Some delivered the unchanging news in a somber tone, others in the same way one says, "I'll take fries with that." It was heartbreaking each time but never shocking. Various doctors had been telling us about your imminent death for months.
Do you remember, Dad, on January 15, 2021, when Mom played Varsity and On Wisconsin for you? You didn't react to the former, but we got some good hand squeezes from you with the latter. What about when Mom said, "I love you," and you gave her an ever-so-slight lip raise? Do you remember that? Hm. You probably don't. You hadn't really been conscious for a while. But I remember. I wrote it down. I write everything down.
You died around 1:28 p.m. on January 21, 2021. COVID-19 was still in full swing. The funeral was small. There was no formal Shiva. I felt so alone.
Blessed is the true jude | ברוך דיין האמת
After January 21, I started writing to you. Well, not immediately thereafter. I had to burn this huge memorial candle. It lasted for seven days, far longer than any Hanukkah candles I've used.
While the candle burned, I wore my black, torn ribbon after the rabbi recited, "ברוך דיין האמת" (baruch dayan ha’emet). This ribbon decorated the lapel of my denim jacket beyond the Shiva period, and now it's under my bed, safe and sound in your mom's jewelry box.
I blurted out that you died to the person who worked the front desk at my climbing gym. She doesn't remember, thank god.
While I waited to write to you, I felt this bubbling urge to tell the world you were gone. I told the bank teller with kind eyes and intense mascara, and she shared her condolences. I blurted out that you died to the person who worked the front desk at my climbing gym. She doesn't remember, thank god. We're dating now.
What I wish I could tell you:
Once the week was up and your candle had burned out, I slapped some gaffers tape on it and labeled it, "CANDLE DAD." I wrote to you and dropped notes in the candle holder, CANDLE DAD, for the next year. I talked to CANDLE DAD. I cried in front of CANDLE DAD.
I wish you had loved yourself the way you loved me.
CANDLE DAD, Dad, is a good listener, but it doesn't hug me or say "I love you, kiddo." It doesn't lament the poor customer service at the once-beloved neighborhood coffee shop, or talk about Tolstoy unprompted. CANDLE DAD can't respond to the notes I've written. So here are some random ones from the first year for you:
February 2, 2021: I think of you every time I dance in the kitchen. I think of Lizzie's wedding and how you and Mom got up to dance with me. I think of how you played the Indiana fight song, and danced with me around the house when I got accepted. I think of you when I dance.
February 5, 2021: Hi! Fuck the prison industrial complex. <3
February 10, 2021: I'm afraid to listen to your old voicemails or watch videos of you. It'll make me cry.
Undated: I miss you, Dad. I wish I'd appreciated how much you loved me.
Undated: Happy birthday, Pops. I love you so much . . . There's so much to catch you up on—Nate and Karen bought a house!
June 10, 2021: I still miss you, Pops. I'm biking to the Dunes Saturday. Gonna take a part of you with me—always, I suppose what with you on my arm.
January 21, 2024: I wish you had loved yourself the way you loved me.
This post is inspired by Judy Blume's novel, "Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret."
