Looking Back on a Year of Firsts
Note: This post was written five years ago in the months leading up to one year without my father, but I just couldn’t push myself to publish it until now. In honor of the five-year anniversary of his passing, I decided it was finally time to share this with you all.
One year ago today, I lost my dad, John, to cancer, just 26 days after he was diagnosed. While there’s so much to discuss, so many things I want to say, I want to focus on what I have learned this year and how I made it through a year of firsts without him because I had an entire army behind me every step of the way.
I wasn’t able to be there with my parents and my family during 24 of those 26 days. My husband was deployed with the Air Force and I was staying in our home across the country caring for our dogs. I was truly lost and didn’t know how to help. I tried my best to call him as often as I could, even if there was nothing to say, but it just wasn’t the same. 10 days before he passed, my mom put out a post asking for cards thinking he might not even enjoy them, but it didn’t hurt to try. He supported me and everything I was doing with Random Acts of Cardness, but he just didn’t quite get it. He wasn’t a huge card person, but once cards started coming in from all over the world, he got it. It was just pure love from people who didn’t even know him, but they still took the time to be a bright spot in the hardest, and what would end up being his final, days of life.
At the same time I was trying to encourage him through all his doctor’s appointments, I was grieving, even before he was gone. We had a rocky relationship when I was growing up, but we had just gotten to a really good place. He was taking a genuine interest in things I enjoyed: asking about the card group, talking about Pokémon Go’s upcoming events (even though he didn’t play), and donating school supplies to a drive I did for my Little Free Library. I was angry. I was grieving the relationship we didn’t have when I was growing up and I was grieving not being able to see where the relationship we were starting to grow would take us. But still, I thought I had time. I thought we had months, not weeks. I thought my husband would come home from his deployment and I could go be with him and my mom for as long as we all needed. But there wasn’t time.
I arrived on the morning of Tuesday the 13th at about 2 AM due to a delayed flight and just as he always did, every time I came to visit, he stayed up talking to me and catching up, even though we just talked on the phone the day before. It was such a nice night and truly needed for the days to come. We met with hospice that afternoon and my husband arrived, thanks to the Red Cross and his leadership team who were able to get him home from his deployment. I will never forget the sound of his voice when I told him we would both be there. He was fighting back tears (which according to my mom, he couldn’t fight back as soon as we hung up) and was so thrilled and in hindsight, it seemed like that brought him a lot of peace.
Those two days were the hardest of my life. Trying to keep a brave face and keep things light for him. Getting him everything he asked for. We headed to the store and he asked for our choice of one of 3 candies, we got him all 3. I hired an artist on Etsy to do a digital watercolor portrait of his beloved dog, Teddy, who had passed the year prior. I had it printed on canvas and he stroked the canvas when I gave it to him. I put it up on the wall right where he could see it from his chair. Mom would get the mail and give him his cards and once he got too weak to hold and read them himself, she would read them to him. He was surrounded by family and food from his favorite restaurants. He was surrounded with cards of love from people who didn’t know him. He was able to spend his final days knowing how loved he was and knowing people were thinking about him.
His health declined so much more rapidly than anyone anticipated and he ended up passing away in the evening of April 15th, 2021.
I am forever grateful for the cards that arrived, especially those from when I wasn’t able to be there with him. I wasn’t there, but my army of Card Warriors sure was. Cards continued to arrive for him and my mom took great peace in reading the messages and knowing people were still caring for him and loving on him, even after he was gone. When I posted that he passed, we were flooded with love and encouragement and even had sympathy cards arrive as soon as 2 days after. I used my PO box address in Arizona in the post, but folks sent cards for me to my mom’s house in Ohio. I was only there for 3 weeks, but they wanted to make sure I knew I was loved and cared for while I was there. Those cards are some of my most treasured possessions. They brought light to those dark days, love to our broken hearts, and told us all of the things we didn’t even know we needed to hear.
Hope also found its way to us in many other ways during those weeks. A sweet friend set up a meal train for me and my mom. Folks took us out to dinner. Others sent cookies or even full catered meals for us to enjoy as a family. Extended family came together and cookouts were had, birthdays were celebrated, his life was celebrated. Dad loved food and family cookouts were one of his favorite things to do when I was growing up. I know those weeks would have made him smile from ear to ear.
Leaving my mom to come back to Arizona was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Not only did I want to be there for her, but then I was truly alone. I did, however, come home to a kitchen table completely covered in mail (thanks to the neighbor who watched our dogs) and a bouquet of flowers from my husband’s coworkers. I quickly realized wasn’t really alone.
In the weeks after I got home, cards kept coming in. I don’t know how, but our senders know exactly what we need to hear when we need to hear it. On days I didn’t even want to get out of bed, I would open a few cards and just smile. The messages would give me the little bit of hope I needed to get out of bed and get my day going. Beautiful mementos about lost loved ones and strength now hang in my craft room as a reminder of not only my dad, but the love of those who sent them. One day, when I was having an especially hard day, I received an absolutely beautiful book about loss from a dear friend in the group. There was no way they could have known how hard that day was going to be, especially when I didn’t know, but that’s the magic of Random Acts of Cardness. It’s exactly the words you need to hear on days you didn’t even know you needed to hear them.
One thing I don’t think I’ll ever get used to is not getting calls from him on the holidays. Holidays were huge with him. He’d always keep an ear out for things my mom talked about wanting and would send me them for gift ideas for the holidays. He loved getting together as a family and celebrating, especially with cookouts when I was younger, or going out to restaurants for brunch. He always made sure everyone had a good holiday (and of course made sure everyone was well fed).
The first calendar holiday was Mother’s Day, just 2 weeks after my mom’s birthday (and 4 weeks after my brother’s) and I missed being able to get those gift ideas for mom from dad and hear about the restaurant he chose for brunch. My mailbox was filled with such kind messages and I focused on spending time with my husband and our dogs. We decided to celebrate one another as dog parents that year, long before dad passed, and I am forever grateful that we did. It was so nice to have something to focus on.
Next, was the big one: Father’s Day. My first Father’s Day without my father. Just like Mother’s Day, I focused on my husband and our dogs and opened cards from the group. I still allowed myself to feel and probably exclaimed how much this sucks about 100 times, but being able to celebrate my husband was a very welcome distraction.
I was still getting weekly cards from a dear friend and constant encouragement from the group as a whole even months after he passed. Halloween came and my mailbox was truly stuffed with fun spooky mail and lots of photo cards of animals in Halloween costumes to make me smile and bring light to the day. I had a medical emergency and was hospitalized and again, my mailbox was flooded with well wishes and kindness. Then, Thanksgiving and I received many cards of appreciation for running the group and being a friend. Every single card was a little bit of light, hope, and love stuffed in an envelope and sent from all around the world. It made the firsts bearable. It made the void left by dad’s loss feel a little bit less massive.
Then, it was Christmas. Christmas was where dad was in his element. He was “done shopping” each year in October/early November, but would inevitably keep finding gifts here are there at stores until days before Christmas. He couldn’t help himself. “I think so-and-so would like this”, “I’m already done shopping for so-and-so, but look at this”. He bought a new tree in 2018 before we had a big family shindig which he absolutely loved (both the shindig and the tree). I would ask him in every conversation starting in October if he had his tree up, he would ask if I had started my shopping yet. We both knew the other would say no, but we asked anyway. I invited my mom to come visit for Christmas and she agreed to come. I tried to make sure everything was perfect, partially to distract myself, partially to distract her. Hot cocoa, cookies, new blankets, fuzzy socks, Christmas movies, you name it. Cards were flooding in again from all around the world and my mailbox was full every time we checked it. It didn’t take it all away, I don’t think anything could, but it sure made it all lighter.
The next month was dad’s birthday. 5 days after my dad turned 30, I came in to the world. Dad turned 40, I turned 10. Then 50 and 20. Just 2 years from now, I would have celebrated my 30th alongside my dad’s 60th. I always loved that our birthdays were so close. We always had our own special days, but my favorite years were when we also did something special to celebrate both of ours together. After he was gone, of course, these 5 days were rough. A harsh reminder that we wouldn’t be able to celebrate 60 and 30 (an age that was very important to me, one I didn’t think I would get to see) together. By the time dad’s birthday rolled around, I was already getting birthday cards for myself which lightened it a bit. A little bit of sunshine each day to get me through those five.
Next was St. Patrick’s Day which while not necessarily a huge holiday, was one of dad’s meal-holidays. Despite not liking corned beef, he made a mean corned beef. He may or may not have complained about the smell the whole time it was cooking, but it sure was delicious. In fact, when dad came out to visit me in Arizona shortly before he was diagnosed, he made sure I had corned beef and all the veggies before he flew back home. This year, I made corned beef in his honor, giggling to myself when I started to smell it cooking thinking about him complaining, and opened cards from all over, including from a dear card friend in Ireland, gold coins and stickers spilling out.
During this time, it was the anniversary of his diagnosis and the whirlwind that surrounded those 26 days. At times, consumed by memories of what happened each day the year before, I found levity in my mailbox. Silly April Fools cards warning me about my car’s extended warranty and fully decked out Christmas cards sent as pranks despite the fact we were now “comfortably” in 90 degree Arizona-spring temperatures. Encouragement continuing still almost a year to the day, people continuing to think of me knowing what was coming up.
Because, of course, it was now “the big day”. One year. One year since I heard his voice. One year since his 3 candy bars. One year since he stroked his dear dog’s head on canvas only to be reunited with him just a day later. One year since I had to start saying “my dad was”. I spent much of the day laying with the dogs and my husband, watching crappy TV, and just existing in the fact that I made it through something that I never thought I would ever have to. Something that I almost didn’t make it through. We made steak in his honor, (I mean what better way to honor him than with food) and we just were. No expectations. Whatever that day had to look like: laughter, ugly crying, cursing (hey, just because I run a kindness page, doesn’t mean my mouth doesn’t have a mind of its own), puppy kisses, junk food, steak, that’s exactly what I needed in that moment. Because I made it.
Even after the anniversary, I had one more obstacle to overcome, one more “first”: Easter. Since Easter changes every year, it was before his passing the year we lost him, but after the anniversary the next. This was a tough one. Easter, the year he died, was the last holiday he celebrated. After the family gathering (I was still in Arizona at this point) my brother called me to update me and essentially told me that if I was going to come out and see him, I needed to right away. Easter, for me, marked the true turning point from “this could get better” to “we need to prepare to lose him”. Easter was when I learned, from 2,000 miles away, I was going to lose my dad and I needed to find a way, despite deployment, despite needing to take care of the dogs, despite the issues my dad and I may or may not have had, to be with him and to support my mom. And despite it all, I’m so glad I was.
To say I owe my life to the beautiful people I call my card family would be an understatement. Amongst many things in my life I never thought I would go through, losing my father when I was 27 definitely topped that list. I can’t imagine how that year would have gone if I was just stuck in my own world, not hearing from anyone, not having the welcome distraction of the cards and letters sent by friends from around the world I only get to see at the mailbox.
Long after the services, long after the Meal Trains, the cards keep coming. Life returns to normal, you aren’t surrounded by people physically anymore, but you are covered by the love of people, sometimes complete strangers, every single time you open your mailbox. That is what being in this group is like. It is love on the days your heart feels empty. It is smiles on a day full of frowns. It is someone in your corner while you tackle those firsts. In this group, we celebrate the good times together and we mourn losses together. I will forever be grateful that even when I was alone physically, I was never alone. Not even for a day. All I had to do was open up my mailbox.
