Dear Dad,
It’s been a long time. Twenty years is a really long
time. When someone turns 20 years old, people tell them that they’re still
young. That they’ve got plenty of living to do. But when a person you love has
been missing from your life’s story for 20 years…that’s a LONG time. Years of
change, growth, mistakes, pain, triumphs, joys, laughter, tears, knowledge
gained and so much more…all passed without you here. Twenty. You've been gone
twenty years.
These past couple of days, as we’ve been approaching the
20-year mark of you being gone, I've had memories wash over me…coming and going
in waves. Feelings. My heart keeps going back in time, to the end of your life.
That time was a bit rough. My brain and heart were going through a lot of
turmoil, because I was ready for you to die. I was only 8, you know. I’ve had
to remind myself of that multiple times these past 20 years. Only 8…close to 9.
I look at 8-year-olds now and think, “Wow. Really? That’s how old I was when
Dad died? Really? They’re just babies.” But I felt so old. Those last two years
of your life, and especially the last few weeks of your life, you weren’t the
dad I knew. You were really the only dad Kayleen knew, but I remembered a lot
better from before. And you had changed…and you were rapidly changing toward
the end. I don’t clearly remember saying goodbye to you. I remember being a
little nervous…the last time I saw you. You couldn’t speak. And Grandma kept
coaxing me to say things. It’s vague. Fuzzy. What I really remember is the
feeling. The feeling of knowing you were going to die. That soon, the hype
would end, that people would be sad, and we’d be left to face the future
without you.
Feelings. So many emotions for such a young kid. I don’t
really know when or how it happened, but I became Mom’s help-mate. She treated
me like her equal. She’d talk to me about her worries and ask my advice on
things. Sure, I was still a kid, but it was Mom and the kids. We were a team.
She did a really great job as a single parent. Better than could be expected.
We were all tired…and emotional. Lots of fast-food eating. Lots of daycare
time. But Mom always knew what was important. We’d all crawl in your big water
bed at night and she’d read to us. She’d wake us up in the morning with a kiss
on the cheek. And before school, we’d learn the Articles of Faith by standing
around the piano and singing them while we waited for the bus.
There was a time after you died that I was angry. I was a
pretty angry kid for a while. They say, statistically speaking, that kids who
lose a parent have a hard time adjusting in the world. Many kids have
long-lasting effects and challenges from losing a parent. Apparently, the
younger your age when losing a loved one, the more impact that loss causes you
in certain pivotal moments of your life. There are life-altering moments along
the way to adult-hood, and even when adult-hood hits. And every time one of
those moments occurs and you’re not there, the wave and emotion of loss hits
10-fold all over again. Like, for instance, your first church or school dance.
Your first day of high school. Learning to drive a car. Going on your first
date. Making a touch-down or a home-run hit in a big game. Winning a State
competition. Graduating from high school. Baring your testimony in church for
the first time. Passing the sacrament in church for the first time. Winning
first prize for baked cookies at the County Fair. Getting your Eagle Scout.
Starting your first day of college. Coming home for the first holiday after
starting college. Leaving to serve a mission. Bringing home the person you want
to marry. Announcing your engagement. Having your first child. And so on and so
forth. The pain isn’t any less the older you are when losing a parent. And you
have more time to gain a relationship with that parent when they pass at an
older age. But the freshness of the loss reoccurs over and over and over….more
times the younger you are when you lose that parent. And for me, Dad…I’ve had
20 years of pivotal moments without you. Moments where the loss has washed over
me, drowning me in longing and desire.
But, let’s not get dramatic. By the way Dad, in case you
didn’t know…I am a dramatic person. I used to hate that about myself. I’ve come
to embrace it. Dramatic people don’t necessarily like, attract or want to
attract drama. They just feel and express things very intensely. That’s a
common misconception (in my opinion) about dramatic people. And that’s me. I
don’t express or feel things half way. It’s pretty much all or nothing for me.
And I’ve figured out…or, I’m still figuring out how to handle it. I think I
kind of became this way when you left. I mean, I’m sure I had bits of my
personality prior to you leaving. But I think the fact that you were taken from
me without my choice…no control…made me need all or nothing commitments. No
half-hearted attempts. No wishy-washy friendships. No maybes. I need
commitment.
Losing you has made me want to give a lot in my life.
There are a lot of people aching…so many people with breaking hearts. I think
I’ve figured out how to use my heart-break to fuel my love for and desire to
give to the people around me. I’m still selfish at times. Pride creeps in a
lot. I get angry and lash out on occasion. But I try…try so hard to give people the benefit of the doubt. I don’t know
what they experienced as a kid. I don’t know who left them along the way. I
don’t know what they’re experiencing right now. So, I try… I try to see the
commonalities between me and them. And I try to give. And I feel like I
wouldn’t be this way if you hadn’t left. Your death has brought out some of the
worst, but some of the best qualities in me. I have a particular soft spot for
homeless people. I seriously cry whenever I see homeless people. I try to talk
to them and find out a little bit about them. And…kids. For a while I was volunteering at a
place called The Healing Center. It was a center for grieving families,
children, teens and young adults who had lost loved ones. When you died, I went
to a place called The Dougy Center, which helps grieving children. If it hadn’t
been for The Dougy Center, and church…I don’t think I would have dealt with
your death in a healthy manner. So, I tried to give back in a similar
environment…The Healing Center. I worked with them for a little while, helping
at events and such, but it was honestly hard for me. Being surrounded by so
many people with such raw heart-ache, but not being able to interact with them
on a personal level…it kind of got to me. So, lately, I’ve been putting energy
into applying to the Big Brother Big Sister nonprofit program. It’s a long
application process, and I really hope I get accepted. I want to be a
consistent “somebody” in a kid’s life.
When you left, Heavenly Father blessed me with consistent
“somebodies.” And He’s blessed me with
them year after year. Many of my consistent “somebodies”…in fact, the majority
of them in my childhood, came in the church environment. Teachers and leaders
who saw me, saw that I needed a consistent somebody, and chose to make me a
priority in their life.
I thank God all the time that you and mom met, and raised
us in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, as members of The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints. I’m so thankful you found your way back to the Gospel after
a time of darkness, and that you decided to change your life’s direction and
accept the Lord’s help and Atonement. I’m so so proud of you for working hard
to be worthy to serve a mission. I LOVE that you chose to marry Mom. I LOVE
that you two chose to love each other…put imperfections aside, and chose to
love each other. I LOVE that you chose to love God.
Dad, I’m not perfect. I used to care a lot about
perfection. So much so, that I drove myself into a deep depression over it. As
a kid, I was terrified my imperfections would keep me from seeing you again. It
kind of caused an obsessive compulsive behavior of consistently agonizing over
my weaknesses and imperfections, and needing to confess all my faults to the
world. At age NINE. And TEN. And ELEVEN. I would agonize…torture myself of
misdeeds I had done, things that might keep me out of Heaven with you. One
time, at age 9, I had convinced myself that I could have murdered someone in my
sleep and suppressed the memory…put it deep in my subconscious. And I would
never see you again because I had done something so unforgiveable, and would
never be able to make up for it. I would spend my nights panicking and crying
and confessing every possible sin I could have ever committed and would ever
commit in the future to Mom. Poor woman. She had a lunatic child. BUT, the point
is…this obsessive compulsiveness progressed throughout my life, manifested
itself in depression sometimes…and all came to a really ugly head a couple
years ago, when I was able to finally…FINALLY let go of the idea of perfection.
That statement confuses some people. And I’m still exploring what that means
for me. It doesn’t mean that I’m not trying to better myself. I’m always trying
to better myself. It doesn’t mean that I’m not trying to be like the Savior. I
am trying to be like the Savior. But what it does mean is I’ve finally realized
that I cannot control my imperfections. Not alone. And if I ignore them…try to
pretend they’re not there…or hate myself for having them and waste my time
wishing them away…that does me NO good. It makes it so that I rely on myself
too much. It makes it so I hate myself if any imperfection creeps out of the
box under my bed in which I’ve tried to stuff it. If I embrace my
imperfections…recognize I have them, maybe even announce some of them, I’m then
able to acknowledge I have them with the Savior, and work with Him to overcome
them. So, I’m not perfect. And sometimes, throughout my life, I’ve worried that
if you were here, and knew of some of the things I’ve felt, thought or done in
my life, that you would be disappointed in me…maybe wouldn’t like me. But I’m
letting go of those feelings. And it feels SO. GOOD. With the Savior’s help,
it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.
Dad, the reality is, I miss you. I do. I long for you at
times. There’s a spot in my heart that is empty…and is only temporarily tied
over with the knowledge that I’ll one day see you again. I KNOW…I KNOW I will
see you again. I will. You’re not gone. You’re still here. This isn’t just a
coping mechanism. This isn’t just something I believe because it’s the only way
I’ll survive. It’s something I know in my bones, in my flesh, in my spirit, in
my mind, in my heart. Every single inch of me knows I will see you again. You
are not gone. You are always here. And while I’ve had to live without your
laugh, your smile, your touch, your voice…I haven’t had to live without you,
because you…the real YOU is still alive. I don’t care what anybody tells me.
YOU are still living. And I WILL see you again. I know it. I absolutely know
it. I know I’ll be able to rekindle and build the relationship I started with
you in the first nearly-nine years of my life. We will get this time back. We
will have our chance to get to know each other. To make memories. To love each
other. To bond. I know it.
Thank you for being the dad you were. Thank you for
loving us. For spending so much quality time with us that we remember details
about you that most kids wouldn’t remember from such a young age. Thank you for
taking time to be with us. Thank you for taking me to work with you. Thank you
for not coming home from work and watching T.V., but instead…chasing us around
the house as the Tickle Monster, telling us stories in a dark room with a
flashlight, for reading to us, for lifting us up on your feet to make us fly,
and talking and listening to us like our thoughts were pieces of gold you
treasured and couldn’t let go unheard. Thank you, Dad. Thank you for loving
me…and leaving me with the best memories, the best faith, the best Mom and the
best brother and sister I could ever ask for. Thank you for your life. I will
see you again.
Love,
Crys
P.S. In the letter you wrote to me before you died, you
said, “Dear Crys, (I hope you don’t mind me calling you Crys).” No Dad, I still don’t mind you calling me
Crys. I LOVE it. It's endearing, and as I always say...tender. And thanks for that letter, by the way. It’s gotten me through
some dang rough patches. LOVE you!
