“Beep, beep, boop!” says wordpress as it allows me to post for the first time in nearly three years. Beep, beep, boop indeed.
So…hi. It’s been awhile since I have had anything to say even though my little life has just kept on keeping on. Mine has, but my Pops hasn’t. If you were a faithful reader of my lj….and why would you be but we’ll ignore that for the moment……you know all about my Pops.
Steely eyed missile man if ever there was one. Also now having died of pancreatic cancer that spawned liver cancer that spawn one mess of abdominal cancer. He died two weeks ago today at 2am mountain time at home in Denver. He lived for 70 years, 8 months and 5 days. I got to spend 40 years, 3 months and 13 days of that time with him as my Pops.
And I loved him dearly.
I spent the summer in Colorado and then turned around and went back three weeks later when my Pops took a turn for the worse. I am home now and trying to learn to be and live without my Pops being a phone call away. I am not sure if I am doing a good job of it or not, as I don’t think you can do a good job or bad job of grieving the death of your father, but I am finding that I need to write it down. My process. My thoughts. My memories.
I have out lived more people than I should have in my little life, so grieving is not new to me. This level of big gaping, and horrible feeling hole inside of me is however. I’ve found with other loved ones who have died, that my memories start to fade, and only the sharpest, or most told memories stay until that is what I think I knew of the person. I want more than that for my Pops. I want everything in my little head. So I shall write it here.
It won’t be today as I need to get small boys from the bus stop and daycare, but here is where I will write it. I’ll write about our last camping trip this summer and all the ones I can remember before it. I’ll write of the random stories he told me and stories I shared with him. I’ll write about our tree that sits on the road somewhere between Ouray and Monarch Pass, and how we admired it, then it was hit by lightening, then he called me when I already lived in New Mexico to tell me it was growing again, and how we saw it growing two trees this past summer.
I’ll write about how he met both my sons for the first time and would not let me name either one after him though I sort of did anyway.
And hopefully by writing, I can shed some of the weight this grief is laying on my shoulders. All the deaths I’ve seen before made me stronger, more compassionate, and a better person. My Pops made me extraordinary, so I will allow his death to do the same.
I miss you Pops. But hopefully some of you will survive here, written out for whomever reads it.