Ten years ago on the 17th he went into the hospital for the last time. On the 18th, his birthday, the rest of us went to the opening of The Fellowship of the Ring, and I thought it grossly unfair that this movie that he’d spent a year or more scouring the internet for photos, clips, teasers, spoilers, cast information, leaked behind-the-scenes photos… he’d never get to see it. He loved those books and passed that love onto me, and we’d spent the last year being excited and hoping Jackson would do it justice. Now it’s a decade later, and while I’m excited to see photos and stills and behind-the-scenes videos of The Hobbit, it’s just not the same.

A decade. That’s almost a quarter of my life. Part of me wants to shake my fist at the sky and call shenanigans for whatever forces of the universe conspired to make my daddy leave the party too early. But part of me wants to thank my daddy for doing such a good job of raising me to be a complete person, one who can get along and still function after he’s gone. He didn’t leave me with unanswered questions. Well, other than “how come at 40 my dad seemed to know everything, and at 40, I don’t seem to know shit?!”… maybe he didn’t know shit, either, but he sure did talk a good game. And of course he had help in raising me, what with Bill and Doris and G-ma and Papa and Aunt Gay and Uncle Joe and Rusty.

The first ten years of my life he was DADDY. The man who tells stories and helps me get dressed in the mornings and takes off bandaids and takes care of my chicken pox and makes all the bad things go away. The second ten years of my life he was UGH, MY DAD, with the long hair and the crazy wife and really, buying a farm in the middle of nowhere, what the hell. The third ten years of my life he was MY DAD THE MAN, and I got to know him as a person and as a man filled with self-doubt and humor and love and bruises and he was as simple and complex as we all are. I got to know his dreams and his regrets and his confusion. And then he was gone.

I used to wonder, when it first happened, was it worse to lose a parent when they’re still in that stage of being able to do no wrong? Or worse when you’ve then gotten to know them as a person? Or worse when you have to watch them wither away at the end, when you’re old too and can feel that finger moving on to you…? Having met people who have lost parents at all three stages, now, I don’t think any one of them is worse than the other. It all sucks. And people who tell you it gets better are lying lying liars. It doesn’t get better. You just get numb to it. That’s not better, it’s just marginally easier to carry.

One time I surprised daddy by coming home for a science fiction convention, that year I lived up North with Quinn. I casually walked into the house – you could see the kitchen from the front door – and since I could see him there, I shouted out, “what’s for dinner!?”. He was halfway into telling me what was for dinner when it registered who he was talking to, and he came running over to wrap me in a big bear hug. “My daughter! My baby girl!” At the time I was like, jeez, dad. Now that I am friend with parents whose kids are leaving the nest, I understand more of the joy he must have felt at my surprise visit. I can still feel that hug in my mind. I’d give a heck of a lot to feel it in person again.

By the way, Uncle Joe wrote something about daddy yesterday as well. You should read it.

Mike, who passed away a couple of weeks ago; The Stepmonster, who looks much more terrifying in my memories; and my dad, who I miss every day. Still using the “My Family Was Awesome” tag, even though one person in this photo is a troll. And it’s the one who’s still alive, so FUCK YOU, JUSTICE.

Today would have been his 69th birthday.

Does losing someone we love, before we want to, make us cherish them all the more? Do we take the lessons they taught us more to heart? Do we see more clearly that they loved and shaped us? Because they are not here to take for granted, are we more grateful for the times we didn’t tune them out as they were telling us that one story one more time? Some of us do, I think. Some of us, though, shrivel up and die a little ourselves, full of bitter anger that those we love were taken from us too soon. Not me. In the words of Maude, I would rather “go out and love some more.”

I thank you for the music
and your stories of the road;
I thank you for my freedom
when it came my time to go;
I thank you for the kindness
and the times when you got tough;
but papa I don’t think I’ve said
“I love you” near enough.

The leader of the band is tired
and his eyes are growing old
but his blood runs through my instrument
and his song is in my soul

The Leader of the Band – Dan Fogelberg

Today would have been Bill’s 67th birthday; next Saturday would have been my dad’s 69th. I still miss them both, so much, every day.

The rest of my 2010 photos can be viewed here.

Has it been almost seven years? It feels like forever; it feels like yesterday.

Here’s a song I listened to a lot when he was sick -

A long December and there’s reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can’t remember the last thing that you said as you were leaven’
Now the days go by so fast

And it’s been a long December and there’s reason to believe
Maybe this year will be better than the last
I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell my myself
To hold on to these moments as they pass

My daddy tells me I’m Queen of the Beaver Mags!

Now that I finally have time to sit down and right this up, it’s probably not as funny as it is in my head.

Sorry to Matt who’s been waiting for this story for like… two years?

This is one of those family legends…

In June of 1975 my dad had a story published in Gallery Magazine.

So we’re at a 7-11 type thing, and I see the magazine behind the counter. Keep in mind that I was young and probably was only as tall as the counter…! I walked up, pointed to the magazine, and said, “I’m in that.”

Blink. Blink.

I’m sure the clerk very indulgently said something along the lines of “…. Right.”

“No, really! I’m in that!”

“I’m sure you are.” (What could he possibly have been thinking? What kind of father did he think I had? It’s really a wonder my dad never served any jail time.)

“No, really! My picture is in there!” I said, and I proudly proclaimed (being five, and totally obsessed with myths and fairy tales that were filled with stories of Royalty). “My daddy tells me I’m Queen of the Beaver Mags!”

HAHAH! I SLAY ME! I’m sure I probably slayed my father too; that sentence alone must have taken a good five years off his life (sorry, dad).

Oh, you probably want to see the picture? Here ya go; one author photo, complete with daughter.

My Poor Dad.

Heh.

(original comments after the cut)

Comments:

ROFL!!!!!!!!! You made my morning Lorena.

Posted by TW on April 20, 2008 at 07:46 AM | #

Hysterical. I’m glad I wasn’t drinking anything, ’cause it would have been all over the monitor!

Posted by arne on April 20, 2008 at 09:37 AM | #

Dad was just trying to promote his “10,000th Orgasm” I see proudly proclaimed on the cover.

Posted by damejain on April 20, 2008 at 10:17 AM | #

Wow… Words fail me. You make me laugh!

Posted by Quinn on April 20, 2008 at 11:59 AM | #

That is so very funny…

So…when do we get to read the article? wink

Posted by Betharoopie on April 20, 2008 at 12:30 PM | #

One of the funniest parts of the story was the ‘triple drain room’, a play on words from another family legend known only to a few at that time, the story of the pickled brain room, found elsewhere in Lorena’s ramblings.

Posted by alicesenior on April 20, 2008 at 01:16 PM | #

very funny, i love it. when i was a baby our family raised Boxer dogs. my dear sweet angel of a Mom loved to tell the story of finding nursling me in the nest with other boxer pups nursing off the mom dog . nom nom nom….good dog, she must have loved me very much.

Posted by marie in florida on April 20, 2008 at 04:37 PM | #

Hee! I bow before the Queen!

Posted by Lara on April 21, 2008 at 02:19 PM | #