exhausted.

It has been a crazy week.

Last Thursday, I checked my phone and had 3 messages at lunch. I never have more than one message, and even that is rare. Mom was desperately trying to get ahold of a family member who had called her, and I had a bad feeling even then.

When my cousin called back, she said her father had two brain aneurysms discovered a few days before,  and they had led to a massive stroke on both sides of the brain. When we got the call, he was on life support but declared braindead.

They kept him on life support until they could find enough patients for him to donate multiple organs, but the funeral happened in a matter of days.

I know they can't be pleasant for anyone, but funerals are tough for me. My dad died when I was young, and every funeral I go to reminds me incredibly of that rough time. I'm still nowhere near over it (even though I recently reached the point where I'd been alive longer without my dad than with him). I have trained myself, basically, to push back the grief when I need to. Or even when I just want to. Most days nothing really gets to me- and even if it does, I'm usually able to move on through my day and deal with it when I get home.

A funeral is a giant reminder of everything. I can't push it back, or get away, or concentrate on something else. It's there, staring me in the face, with every awkward hug and each line of "On Eagle's Wings." Every second I can't manage to distract myself, I become 11 years old again and can't stop crying. The grief that normally lies dormant and dull suddenly becomes sharp and insistent, especially when there's a picture set out of my dad and uncle together when they were young and grinning.

For me in this case, the person's death was sudden but not entirely shocking, as he'd suffered many health problems in the past. But my heart ached for his family. His kids are only in their 20's, and yet both of their parents have died in the past 5 years. I know how much it hurts to lose your dad, but I can't imagine how the pain would magnify if my mom weren't here either. It doesn't feel fair that they have to deal with that.

I did my sub plans on Monday, drove home to beat the snow, spent most of the day at the church, drove back, and taught again on Wednesday. My week felt strange and 'off', and I kept fighting off really thinking more about what happened so I could get through the week. Honestly, during the days I didn't think I could deal with it and still teach. And after work, I've kept myself distracted as much as possible because I haven't really wanted to deal with it.

Throughout all of this, my grandfather has been in the hospital, too, dealing with a plethora of ailments that seem to be worsening and complicating each other more each day.

I got a message yesterday that my mom and her siblings were driving down to Florida immediately. The doctor gave word that Grandpa's chances weren't good of making it out of the hospital. They're fighting a monster case of pneumonia for a chance to fix his heart, and he's just been moved to the ICU where they are trying 'last chance' options.

I feel like I don't know what to do, because there's really not any concrete thing I can do but pray and it doesn't feel like enough. I feel guilty because I keep putting everything out of my mind, even though I know that tends to be how I deal with things until I can't do it anymore. I can't stop worrying about my cousins and my grandma and my mom and everyone who is closer to the situation than me. I'm sick of having to keep my phone in my pocket at work because I might need to take an emergency call or check it and find a message that something else has gotten worse.

I don't know what I want to come of writing about all this, but I needed to. Either one of these situations would be hard, but I'm really struggling with facing both so close together. If things get worse for my grandpa, I'm afraid I'll just... unravel. Hopefully the antibiotics will start working soon.


P.S.- I know I have some friends who will want to pray and think of me, but please don't. If you want to do something like that, think of my grandfather and my cousins, grandma, and mom. They are dealing with a lot more than I am right now.

cue the tears

I've been making an effort to write more about teaching, mostly because I read a lot of teacher blogs and I end up inspired to write my own posts. Also, teaching is basically my entire life right now. (Yes, I know I need to fix that.)

Anyway, time for just a 'me' post, inspired by a friend here. Miss Kat's blog is pretty new, but she posts about life as a cool mom that I'm sure MiniKat's friends are jealous of, and about nail polish so pretty I actually want to paint my nails (and that's saying something!).

She posted about parents, and the transition from "Mommy and Daddy" to "Mom and Dad" or "Mother and Father." It made me think of my 5th grade year.

I had just started to try out "Mom" and "Dad." I think the switch was a matter of independence. I was almost in middle school, and apparently too 'grown up' to still be calling my parents by babyish names like Mommy and Daddy. I didn't want to sound like a little kid, dependent on my parents. "Dad" wasn't consistent yet, but it had definitely started.

Most of you probably know that my dad died at the end of that school year. I can't quite describe it, but it makes me sad and a little guilty that I didn't always call him "Daddy."

I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, but I guess I realized that little kids aren't just 'dependent.' Especially now that I'm a teacher, I see that little kids love so strongly. Terms of endearment and hugs are frequent, but they are usually genuine. Their affection is just unabashed because they don't care about what other people think, or how it might appear.

Honestly, by fifth grade, I thought that kind of little kid love was kind of embarrassing. I was sure that I was too old for that kind of thing. (Like most 11-year-olds, I think.)

But now that he's gone, I regret not taking advantage of every single opportunity to say "Daddy." I don't care if it was natural and normal to distance myself from my parents; I regret ever wanting any distance between us. I know I would have liked having a different relationship with him when I was older, too, but I never got to. All I ever got to have was the "Daddy's Little Girl" stage, and it kills me that even any little part of me wanted to give that up.

A name may be a little thing, but it feels like it represents a lot more. It's hard to explain, but I wish I would have always used "Daddy," and never given up the chance to love him with the reckless abandon of a little girl.

Jealousy Jane

Bird on the Street is one of my favorite blogs. I started reading when the author was a teacher, and followed as she became a parent of a special needs child. It is absolutely captivating to read her insight and optimism, her realism and disappointments, and the successes of both her and little Charlie.

In this post, she said: "Sometimes I think it's good to get stuff off your chest--it lets you breathe. I want this blog to be about living joyfully and sometimes you have to bare your soul a little to get to the joy." After that, she went on to list some things of which she was jealous. And because I've been thinking too much the past few days, I was inspired to do the same. Yes, I've gone a little overboard.

I'm jealous of:
- Women who are confident in their bodies- who wear shorts without feeling self-conscious, who can think swimsuit shopping is ever a joyous experience, who don't have to change outfits over and over again before they decide they look passable. (Note: This is not necessarily women who are "attractive" or "ideal"- though I'm jealous of them, too- but it's women of any size or shape or looks that FEEL attractive and love their bodies no matter what.)
- My brothers, who can eat whatever they want, and three times as much of it as I would eat, and still stay on the low end of healthy weight. (My little brother has been told by the doctor that he should TRY to gain weight, and it's been a challenge. A CHALLENGE.)
- Women who may not be confident in their bodies, but do something about it- who have the motivation, the persistence, and the courage to plan and work and sacrifice to be healthy and meet a goal.
- Women who don't let their insecurities invade their relationships and friendships to the point where jealousies, frustrations, and paranoia arise.
- People for whom faith is constant and feels certain.
- Teachers with a calm, obedient classroom- who don't have to yell at students on a regular basis, who can get more teaching done than disciplining, who can still be in a good mood at the end of a day, who have the patience to deal with the everyday.
- Teachers with their own classroom. (While I love the teacher I work with and in most ways wouldn't want my own room, sometimes I wish I had ultimate authority and the chance to do it all my way.)
- Teachers who make it look easy. I know it's not- ever- but some teachers are just so talented. See also, teachers who can go into a principal evaluation without being terrified.
- Teachers with tenure, or at least more than half a year of seniority. Or anyone with job security, really.
- People with dogs and cats. Can't tell you how much I miss having one when I come home.
- Women with a true girl best friend- who run to one person with any big news, who can talk about boys without a second thought, who they don't have to share with anyone else, who they can regularly spend lots of time with, and who have someone that knows them almost better than they know themselves. It's even better when you know that you've earned that kind of friendship, and lately I'm jealous of people who feel that way, too.
- People who have plenty of money- who don't have to worry about debt or payments, who don't have to be cheap sometimes, who can buy the expensive things they've wanted for so long without reservations even when the money is in the bank, who don't have to worry about compromising or putting off a wedding because of finances. (Yes, I know most of this is just being new to the adult world.)
- People who will get to have their father walk them down the aisle and dance with them at their wedding.
- People who have close relationships with their siblings. With one of my brothers, I almost dread seeing him in person because we usually end up fighting and I usually end up feeling terrible.
- People who feel a deep sense of deserved appreciation for whom they are and what they have done.
- People who are in a close-knit group or club- who spend so much time with the same people that they feel like family and even when they annoy you, you love them. (I miss marching band, drama club, winterguard... all of it.)
- People who are and feel smart. I used to feel smart and I miss that feeling.
- Neat people. Punctual people. Organized people.
- People who have the commitment to spend time and money doing enjoyable things- seeing more plays and musicals and concerts, regularly reading books for fun, dancing, traveling.
- People with the energy and time management to come home from a full day of work and actually get something done.
- People who don't go into random times of being moody and thinking too much. Sometimes for days at a time, I'm in a funk and can't seem to snap out of it.

Most of the time, I'm extremely positive and optimistic. I know that overall, I have a great life and a lot to be grateful for. All things considered, I don't really have reason to complain and I know that.

I'm not fishing for compliments. I know many of these things are well within my control to change. Some are materialistic, some are selfish, some are wistful, some are unrealistic, and some are just plain stupid. I hate that most of these are on my list.

So... here's the optimism. Hopefully someday I'll be able to use them for good? In the meantime, feel free to share the jealousies you need to get off your chest.

June 4th, 1998

Note: This is an extremely long post, written more for me than for any reader.

I was eleven years old, and it was the last day of school. The last day of elementary school, even! I woke up with one of those Christmas-morning sort of moods, where you don't care that it's early because it's going to be a good day!

And the morning was going swimmingly. For once, the first outfit I tried on looked great, and I was ready with enough time to spare to have breakfast before the bus came. Even in fifth grade, I was rarely ready to leave early- but that day, eleven years ago today, I was. It was a good day- no, a great day- and I was so excited.

The last day of school was a blast, too. Mr. Quinn must've known that there was no way he'd get us to do much of anything that day. I remember spending the morning helping him move things to his new room downstairs and then playing games. At one point, the principal came to our room.

My brothers and I had never liked her. Mrs. Kinder could be kind of scary, stern woman and whenever we saw a "KinderCare" we made jokes. We were probably too mean, but even though I didn't like her much, I wasn't at all scared when my teacher asked me to leave with her.

I wish I could remember what his face looked like when he told me, but I was too busy brushing off the taunts of my friends. I wasn't worried- I was a "good kid" and knew I hadn't done anything to get myself in trouble- but they still "ooohed" at the fact that I was sent out with the principal.

When I got to the hallway, Mrs. Kinder told me that we'd go pick my brother up from class, but otherwise remained fairly stoic. It wasn't out of the ordinary for her, so I followed without a worry. When Bill wasn't in his classroom but instead outside, she led me out the door. We walked around the school, passing my classroom's window. I waved to my friends, grinning that I was outside in the beautiful weather while they were stuck in class. Eventually, we'd circled the school and discovered that Bill's class must have gone inside. As we came in, we realized someone else must have sent a message to his class, and Bill was walking in the hallway ahead of us towards the office.

A single student was in the hallway, getting something out of his locker, and Mrs. Kinder told him, "Go stop Bill," so he started to walk. And only then, when our strict principal told him to run in the hallway, did I realize that something might be wrong.

The boy stopped Bill, and he walked in with us. Mrs. Kinder led us to her office and opened the door. Inside sat my mother, with tears streaming down her face, and my pastor. My first thought was that my aunt or uncle had died. They were always in and out of the hospital with sudden and serious health problems. To this day I don't know why it didn't cross my mind that my dad wasn't in the room.

We were told to sit down, and we did, but we were both on edge. My mom took a deep breath, and she told us that our dad had had a heart attack that morning. I can't remember her exact words, but I know she choked on the words a little when she told us he had died at the hospital.

I burst into tears immediately, and my brother sat, rigid, without a word.

After a few minutes, I returned to my classroom. Thankfully, the class was gone and I could clear out my desk without seeing anyone. Before I left, I pulled out a piece of paper and wrote a quick note to one of my friends telling her what had happened. It had barely sunk in, and I remember struggling to put it into words.

We went home, and my little brother was waiting with my grandma. He was just finishing first grade and was excited to be home early. My family stood awkwardly by our front door, almost like visitors, as my mom told Steve. Watching him take the news was harder, I think, than being told myself. His tiny body seemed to crumple with the news, and he bawled. I wrapped him in a hug as tightly as I could. I think we all did.

My memories of the next few days are spotty. Mom and I underwent the painful task of going through photo albums to make a couple of poster boards, and she went to make arrangements. I remember going in to see my dad in the casket before the viewing. It didn’t upset me as much as I thought it would- he didn’t look like himself, really, although we did have him dressed in a shirt he wore often and the suspenders he wore almost constantly. Lots of people sent flowers, including my class at school (I still have the flowers in my room) and my dance studio.

During the viewing, I can remember my extended family trying to distract my brothers and me in a back room. At one point, they took us across the street for ice cream just so we could get away for a break. I also remember, in a very fifth-grade fashion, trying to avoid being out with my mom when boy classmates came to the viewing. Instead, hiding in the back just prompted my uncles’ teasing that a boy was there to see me. But lots of people came- our close friends, lots of people from church, and even business associates of my dad’s. The biggest surprise, for sure, was one of my dad’s teachers from when he was in school- he’d remembered him being a good kid and wanted to come.

At the viewing, I learned that the worst thing to ask someone after they’ve lost a loved one is “How are you?” … because, really, what are you supposed to say? “I’m great, thanks!” sounds terrible, but you don’t want to make the person feel bad by replying “Absolutely awful; thanks for bringing it up.” There’s no answer that feels both honest and kind, but somehow that’s all anyone can think of to say to you.

The funeral was the next day, and before it, my family got one more chance to spend a little time alone with my dad’s body before they closed the casket. I remember this, and each taking a moment to say a goodbye of sorts, but the actual funeral is completely blocked from my memory. I know “On Eagle’s Wings” was played, mainly because both of my parents love that hymn and my mom still cries just about every single time she hears it. I don’t remember any sort of eulogy, or what happened as a part of the service. I just remember the casket being carried out at the end and our family getting into a crappy limousine to go to the cemetery.

Times like those- in between the serious times- it seems like we tried to talk about anything but my dad. It was awkward and it was hard, but joking around was easier than stewing in grief any more than we already were. So we did- we joked, and tried to mean it when we laughed.

We did laugh a little, genuinely, when my uncle pulled on a handle to get out of the limo and it broke. None of us were sure what to do with the handle, so he snuck it back into place and we all got out of the limo.

It didn’t take long for everything to hit home again, and after waiting on a string of cars to arrive, we watched my dad’s casket descend with red roses on top.

The rest of the summer is a blur. My family cancelled our vacation, and ended up scheduling one for December instead so we could avoid being home through Christmas and my dad’s birthday (the 26th). We never spent all that much time talking about things as a family. In general, I think it was easier for all of us to pretend, for awhile, that nothing was different, and after we were used to dealing with it on our own, it was even harder to bring up. In the fall, I started middle school and while my class knew what had happened, not everyone in the school did, and that helped. I didn’t want people to know, to pity me, to treat me differently. I didn’t want anyone to see me as fragile, because I wasn’t. I could take care of myself, and even if things were rough, no one else had to see it. I much preferred to control it- to keep it all inside until later, when I could deal with it alone and on my own terms.

It’s still sometimes hard to think about how sudden the whole thing was. My dad had been healthy. He wasn’t as skinny as he could have been, but he’d been to a physical two weeks before he died and the doctor saw nothing wrong. The autopsy said a heart arrhythmia- an uneven heartbeat- caused cardiac arrest. There was no clot, no clear reason for the sudden arrhythmia. I know enough about biology to realize that it probably wasn’t, but it seemed, by all accounts, an entirely random occurrence.

The memories I have of my dad are spotty and fading, which makes me feel guilty (although I know I shouldn’t). But I still get upset from time to time, especially when other things trigger it. The tiny bit of wedding planning I’ve done has been a joy- I would love to do something to honor my dad, like play Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again (a song from Phantom of the Opera, which he loved, sung by a girl about missing her dead father) or something- but I’m afraid that I’ll start crying and never stop.

I don’t think I deal with things in the healthiest way I could, but I feel like I do what tends to work for me and, at this point, what I’m used to. By now, I’ve lived as many years without my dad in my life as I have with. It’s hard to… miss him, exactly, when it’s not like I’m used to having him here. Life is just really different at this point. My memories of my dad come from when I was an elementary school student, and now I’m old enough to be an elementary teacher.

My dad’s death is without a doubt the most influential event in my life, but it’s hard to say exactly what influence it has had. I mean, I know I’d be really different if it hadn’t happened, but hell if I know how. And while things get easier as time goes on, they are never easy. (If they start to feel that way, I just feel guilty about not being more upset.) June 4th is usually rough, especially if- like today- I don’t have anything keeping me too
busy to think much.

Simply put, at this point I’m not sure I’m missing my dad as much as I’m missing the opportunity to have him in my life. I don’t know if that makes any sense to anyone else, but I feel like… I don’t even know what I’m missing, and I’m jealous of people that get the chance to have their dads around. Eleven years is long enough that it’s already hard for me to remember what that’s like.

perennial

Between two half-homes,
A needed, sudden stop.

Turn the key and park it.
Leave its hood, put up my own.

No place for maintenance
On the car, at least.

Sandals in the soggy grass.
Rain falls, clouds loom low.

Step by step familiar
Trying for respectful.

Reaching hands, carved
Still looking out of place.

Stand there, "I miss you."
There is nothing else.

Tears masquerade
Salty raindrops, blending in.

Tiny flowers, unexpected
In a garden of memories

Beauty meets death,
In the simple souvenir.

Stay only for a minute
Weathering the storm.

It doesn't pass; it won't
The hood down, I go

To home. Family.
Always minus one.

This didn't come out how I wanted it to, but I've tweaked it a lot already, I rarely like my poetry, and I kind of needed to write it.

i say weird a lot in this one

I don't often remember my dreams. When I do, they're usually really weird, and transition from one into the next seamlessly. I'll go down a hallway in my house and suddenly I'm at my high school, and it doesn't even seem strange.

I realized the other day that I was having a weird dream in this strange sort of hotel where I've had dreams multiple times before. I think it's inspired in part by the cruise ship, large hotels I've been to, my middle school, anywhere with secret passageways, and maybe even the movie Titanic. I don't even know. Seriously, it's weird.

Usually in my dreams in this hotel, things start out relatively calm, but by the end of my dream I'm rushing around in a hurry, trying to get from one place to another or find someone in some sort of crisis or minor crisis. It's a confusing place, and I just keep going up and down elevators and stairs and hallways and passageways and around a stage and... it's just crazy, and usually includes some assortment of people I actually know and people my mind made up. One time someone let these huge dog-things loose and they were knocking into pillars and walls and running over people (which, now that I think about it, is something reminiscent of a combination of Shadow of the Colossus and The Running of the Bulls).

Anyway, I had a dream kind of like that again the other day, only this time I was on a family vacation and at first just hanging out with Steve. But it started to storm, and for some reason the ceiling of this place was a dome, but it was leaking. And not like the GeorgiaDome in recent news (although that probably inspired the dream, at least in part)... it was as though the dome material was porous, and basically when it started raining hard at all, water started pouring down from all parts of the ceiling.

Steve and I decided to rush up and check on our room, to see if there was anything out that would be ruined. We met Mom along the way, and she was headed to her room for the same reason. I think we just assumed Bill was on his way. We were going up the complicated series of elevators (for those of you that ever played SimTower, it was kind of like if you made multiple elevator shafts that didn't all go to all floors), as the water kept raining on us, when I woke up.

It was a weird dream, but not much weirder than a lot of weird dreams I've had before. The part that stuck out to me, though, was the realization that even in my dream, I had thought that my mom had her own room because my dad wasn't around anymore.

For some reason, it made me really sad that my subconscious is so used to my dad being gone that even in this dream world, where anything is possible, he was still gone. I know it'll have been ten years this June, so it's understandable that my mind is used to thinking of my family as a family of four now, but it just makes me sad.

insomnia

I remember, quite clearly, when my mom found out there was a Father-Daughter dance at my high school.

My response was a firm, and immediate, no, I'm not going.

My mom, trying her best to be supportive, I suppose, offered that I could take an uncle, a close family friend, or my grandpa. Maybe she was trying to let me know that it was okay with her; I don't know.

But the thought of attending a father-daughter dance, especially with someone other than my father, quite frankly made me nauseous. Luckily, my mom picked up on my feelings, and dropped the subject. She never brought it up again, in that year or any other.

Most of the time a mere mention of something father-daughter-y won't bother me. Especially at this point-- it's been over nine years at this point since my dad died, and some of the pain has faded with the memories.

But some things still hit me hard, and usually they hit me when I least expect it. One time this summer, I was walking back to my apartment and saw a man walking, holding hands with a little girl as she walked on the hill next to the sidewalk. They were probably twenty feet away, and the dad looked nothing like mine, but for some reason I was caught off-guard with what I guess could best be described as jealousy. And something as seeing simple as a father and daughter taking a walk together made me start crying.

I can't imagine going to a father-daughter dance. Not then, not now, not ever. Seeing all of my classmates with their dads, or dadly figures, enjoying quality time together, taking pictures together, and just... being together- it's about the last way I'd want to spend an evening.

And who would I bring? I love him, but my grandfather and I just aren't very close, and especially on a night when I was prone to getting upset, he'd not be my chosen companion. The one uncle in town that I'd consider would have gone with me in a heartbeat. He's wonderful, and he'd do his best to distract me all evening- but he's got his own daughter, and as great as he is, I just don't think of him at all in a fathery sense. There's also a close family friend, who's so close he's practically family... but the few times he's done somewhat fathery things, I feel almost like I'm betraying my dad. I know my dad wouldn't mind, but something wouldn't feel right about bringing anyone else to a 'dad' function.

Besides, some of the people I went to high school with had also gone to elementary school with me... and I didn't want anyone who knew that this wasn't my dad to ask who was with me, and to have awkward explanations. And I didn't want anyone who didn't know to assume that he was my dad. Sure, it'd avoid awkwardness, but it'd somehow feel fraudulent. Maybe if I'd had a stepfather or someone come into my life who I felt like sort of fit that 'fatherly' role, I would've been okay with them going along. But the way things were... I didn't even want to think about going. I was not going, and that was it.

There are some things, like this, that I'm just not going to do. I will not go to father-daughter dances, I will not have a father-figure walk me down the aisle at my wedding (if anyone, it will be my mother or brothers or something), I will not have a father-daughter dance when I get married (maybe some other sort of 'giving away' dance, but no, not that). I can barely bring myself to think about those type of things, most of the time, without crying.

The things that fathers traditionally do- even things normally hated by daughters, like interrogating a date before he takes you out- are things I miss. Well, not miss, I guess, because in a lot of cases... they're things I've never had, and things I never can. But I feel like I'm missing out, even if it's missing out of something negative, because things like that are a definite impossibility in my life.

And yet, if one of our close friends or one of my brothers tries to step into that role, I snap. It's nice, I guess, if they get protective or something- but I immediately go into nothing-can-replace-my-father mode, I have a really hard time appreciating the gesture rather than getting livid.

For a long time, I've told my mother, as my brothers have, that if she wants to date again, we're okay with it. That it might be hard for us at first, but we'll try to be supportive if it makes her happy, and that we'll know she's not trying to replace Daddy. I don't doubt that it would be really hard for me to deal with, especially at first, and that my brothers and I would be extremely judgmental of anyone she dated, but we've promised that we'd try to be accepting.

My mom has always said, though, that she doesn't want anyone else; Daddy was her 'one,' I guess, and she's just not interested in looking for another husband. I don't think anyone would think less of her if she did, and I don't think she'd worry that my dad would think less of her; if anything, I think she'd think less of herself. And I can see that-- even taking someone else to a silly dance would make me feel a little guilty. I worry about her being lonely sometimes, but most of the time, I try not to. My guess is that she's a lot like me.

There are times when I break down and sob until my stomach hurts and I feel like everything happened just yesterday and it's never getting better. But these times are rarer as time goes on, and I've learned how to deal with things in the way that allows me to best go on with everyday life. And no matter what is "okay" in other people's minds for you to do, I do what feels right to me.

I know it may not be the best way of dealing with things, but I guess it works okay. It's not great, but I can't imagine any way of grieving that wouldn't cause a sleepless night here or there.

Speaking of, I should try to get some sleep. Again.

Goodnight.

I wonder...

What do most women do if their father, for one reason or another, cannot give them away at their wedding?

As I see it, there are a few options:
-The mother gives her away.
-Another person gives her away (such as brother, uncle, family friend).
-She walks down the aisle alone.

I'm going to be faced with this eventually, and I don't know what I'd want to do. I don't think, at least now, I'm close enough with either of my brothers to feel like they should do that. I don't think any of my other relatives or elder friends are close enough, either. I could have my mother give me away, but... part of me doesn't want someone else to stand there where I feel like my father should be. Still, part of me doesn't want to walk down the aisle by myself.

The weird thing is, this isn't something I need to worry about anytime soon. I know I'm kind of in a bad mood today, somewhat thinky, and a little overemotional... but it's a topic that's come up in my head many, many times since my dad died. I don't think wedding traditions necessarily have to be upheld or anything like that; it just feels to me like it's a role that my dad should be in, and if he can't be... I'm not sure what I would want to happen instead. I'm not sure if other people have come up with any better solutions than I have. I'm not sure I should even attempt to think about it until I need to.

I've said it before, but it scares me a little that I might not be able to fully enjoy big life events because a little part of me is sad that my dad isn't physically there. I know it sounds silly, he wouldn't want it, it probably won't happen, whatever. But I'm afraid that when I'm getting married, having a kid, getting a job, things like that- I won't be able to be 100% happy. And I guess that's okay... it's just depressing to think about.

I know people will want to comment with words of comfort, saying he is here, he's watching over me, etc... but I want him here. I don't want a long-distance relationship with my father, essentially, for the rest of my life, even if that is how things work. I want him to meet the people in my life that I care about, be able to talk to me and offer advice about what's going on in my life, and be physically present at events in my life. My memories are fading, and it hurts to think that eventually I might be left with little more than what photographs and home videos can show me.

I feel selfish worrying so much about a little thing like who's going to walk me down the aisle; really, I do. I'm not at all the only person who's ever had to deal with something similar, and it isn't really that huge of a deal. When it comes down to it, it's my wedding so I'll do things however I damn well please (pretty much, my future husband's the only one who'll have as much say as I do on things). Still, it feels like a big deal to me, because it's one of the few times that everyone isn't there. At your graduation, most parts of your wedding, having a child, etc.-- your father's role is not particularly more prominent than anyone else's. But at your wedding, it is very specifically a father's role to walk his daughter down the aisle and have a last dance with her at the reception. And, sure, there are alternative ways of handing all of that. I just wish, so much, that I didn't even have to think about them.