Dad

My father died July 29th. Exactly two weeks after the one year anniversary of Steve's death. Exactly two weeks ago today.

Every night after Steve died, shortly after the nightly news ended, my father called to check in on me. I was used to talking with Steve five to ten times a day when he working out of town. So those calls from Dad following Steve's death were a life-line. They kept me tethered when I feared I'd just float away.

Not long after Steve died, and only half joking, I told Dad he had to wait a year to die. I explained I wasn't sure I could bounce back from the two men in my life dieing inside a year. I felt like an ass for saying those words to him but the reality was, I had reason to fear. He was on the losing side of COPD. And none of us had illusions about what that meant.

Dad promised he'd hang in for me.

I reminded him of our deal in December when he broke his hip. And I wasn't joking one damn bit as I sobbed and crawled into his hospital bed to lay alongside him. I had made it through the holidays at that point but had no idea the worst three months were still ahead of me.

Dad waited until a few days after the one year anniversary of Steve's death to tell me of his latest, and last symptoms. He didn't want to worry me when I was so scared about a date on the calendar. But I did get to spend some time with him near the end. I got to do it knowing it was near the end. I'm grateful for that time. For that full year of time.

I just wish I had thanked him for keeping his promise.