Today, I left church early because there was a talk about heroes in Sacrament Meeting. This man talked about how his dad was one of his heroes. I stopped giving the speakers my full attention after that. I miss my dad and I don't like to be reminded that he's not here anymore.
Today, for some reason I was thinking about the last fight he and I had. We used to fight a lot. Knock down, drag out, yelling matches where we both blew up and said hurtful things mixed in with some profanity. They started when I was a teenager after Grandpa died. I wanted to move back to California, alone if that was the only way. Dad said that was not an option. Then he threatened to send me to boarding school in Vermont. (I have no idea why since I was such a joy to live with.)
When he and I would fight, the rest of the family seemed to disappear; I think they might have been hiding. Mom would try to get us to separate, which was never successful. The fight usually ended with Dad throwing me out of the house and me slamming the door as I left. I would go to the park a block away and swing on the swings until Mom came to talk me into coming home.
The last time Dad and I had one of these fights was 9 months before he died. I was 24. I was driving him home from the office and he was not feeling well. This made him very cranky and I was blamed for every pothole in the road. I don't know what triggered it but we started one of our fights. (It might have been that a few days before, when he asked me what I thought would happen with his illness, I told him I thought he was going to die.) This time when he kicked me out of the house, I had an apartment in a different state and a credit card. I called an airline and bought a plane ticket. Mom was shocked! I think Dad was, too. He didn't talk to me for several months.
When he did finally call me, he had just gotten out of the hospital for the zillionth time. He apologized to me. He said that he didn't want to die and leave us here without him. If he believed that the disease would beat him and acknowledged that he would eventually die, then the disease would have won. Daddy didn't want to lose or admit that there was a possibility of defeat.
I moved back home 3 months before he died. They were the hardest months of my life. I spoke at his funeral. People act like the funeral arrangements are difficult to make; they're not. The little things that we all take for granted are difficult. Not being able to talk on the phone. Not getting to go on vacation with someone who loves the same things you love. Not having anyone there to tell you you can do anything...and you believe them. Those are the difficult things.
Happy Father's Day, Dad!
I miss you every day.
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