Grief. . . And Gratitude

It's nearly three months since my dad died.  And introspective fellow that I am, it hasn't hit me like the ton of bricks I thought it would.  I was prepared for huge, crushing grief, an utter earthquake in my life.  Dad was one of the very few constants in my life; mothers have come and gone for me (strange as that is to say, and I really don't mean it in the least bit pejoratively toward any of them).  We've changed houses and cities; friends have come and gone, but since the day he adopted me (before my memories of anything earlier had kicked in in earnest), Dad was always there for me.  So I was prepared for some pretty significant emotional churning (and recalling what I experienced when I met my birth-mother, that wasn't an unreasonable thought).

But it hasn't been that way at all.  I miss him.  Oh, without a doubt, I miss him terribly.  Ever since Mom went to the nursing home, I'd had a pattern of calling Dad roughly weekly.  The calls weren't always terribly stimulating; often as not, he'd just keep me up-to-date on his current medical status.  Sometimes we'd talk about recent progress on the family genealogy (and in the last year before he died, he made a really significant breakthrough, tracking our surname-family back across the ocean, into 1600s Germany), or just what my packet of his grandkids (the 'production side' of the family tree) were up to.  It wasn't terribly burdensome - I'd usually call him on my cell phone driving home from work (my daily commute covers many miles of lightly-traveled freeway, so it wasn't a big deal) - and it was always good just to hear his voice.  I miss those calls.

On one level, I've been mentally preparing myself for his passing for the last 20 years; his brothers were 47 and 58 when they died, and my grandpa didn't see 70, either.  So once Dad hit 70, I figured he could be leaving any time.  So maybe that's helped; I don't know. . .

Mostly, I've just felt a sadness.  Not a big, up-front, dominating-my-consciousness sadness, but just a background sadness that's just kinda. . . there.  And doesn't go away (at least, it hasn't yet).  I'm not depressed; I still enjoy my life.  I take joy from my marriage, and my kids (all of them), and my network of good friends.  I'm enjoying the challenges of my job.  I just miss my dad, that's all.

They tell me that, in time, it will mostly go away.  That the sense of sadness and loss will soften and heal.  And I believe them.  But just at the moment, I miss him.  Ever since I moved out of my parents' house, I've often, when I found myself wrestling with some conundrum of life, asked myself what Dad would do about it.  I rarely ever called and asked him directly, but it was always comforting to know that I could.  And now I can't anymore.  But I can still draw on the internal resources that his own strong character provided for me; only now, I have to pull it from my memory of him.  And I suppose that that's comforting in its own way. . .

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Thanksgiving is coming soon, and this Thanksgiving promises to be as significant as any we've had in quite a few years.  Perhaps most obviously, this is the momentous First Holiday since Dad died; the first time our family will be gathering for the holidays without our parents.  And who knows how that will be?  But I am gratified that we are all inclined to keep our family connections alive (and given the Yours-Mine-and-Ours nature of our family, perhaps all the moreso).

So, it being Thanksgiving, I am grateful for my family.  And I am especially grateful for 55 years of life with my Dad in it.  I am grateful for his strong character, his sense of duty, and the strong example he gave me.  I can't even begin to say how my life has been better for him having been my dad. . .