This is Tough

I have so many unfinished stories, memories, and moments - I keep telling myself that I am physically hurt, and emotionally, so why not take this time to write. I want to write. I admire writers, I like reading books with beautiful language; the stories that make you see a movie in your mind. So why haven't I been able to do it? Why does it hurt so much to start a sentence?

Writing, and then reading it later, is creating a portal to the past and it is softening the harsh divide created between life and death. It seems like just yesterday, you were here, I could call, I could visit, I could.... then that opportunity was gone. Your last breath, and toot, halted our conversations on this side of the wall forever... but it doesn't mean I can't visit you in a memory, call out to you in a moment, see you in myself. It doesn't mean you are gone, you're just somewhere I haven't visited yet. Somewhere I can't see yet.

I haven't been good about watching for you. I have filled my capacity with work, with recovery, with healing and I can do endless amounts of physical therapy but until I can slow down and really grasp grief I won't heal emotionally and I know that. Knowing what is good for you is easy, finding the strength and the courage to do it is the hard part. This is tough.

I told myself I was going to write about you a little every day and I haven't. I think about you so many times throughout the day but sometimes I feel like the only way I can truly feel something strong enough to keep you close is when I am thrown to the ground with grief and pain. I cry so hard there are no tears, no sounds, and no breath. It is stillness with a pain so deep it's cutting my chest and throat open from the inside out. It consumes me like fire. It burns and blazes without a direction. I allow myself to sit in it, to feel it, because for some reason I feel like I deserve to hurt too, because you felt the pain and I couldn't stop it.

I know it isn't fair, and that I should be proud of how much I gave to your journey but I can't because I feel like I have failed knowing you are gone.

At first I thought, it shouldn't be a child's responsibility to bear such a heavy weight - I was angry that no one was truly there to help me help you. Don't get it wrong, I was offered help and support by SO MANY and I will forever be grateful for that but I declined mostly, because what we went through isn't for everyone. The moments we shared as we faced our biggest fears weren't something that anyone else could understand. Hell, I am only starting to understand some of it through reflection. In my reflection I see that I just wanted others to love you like I do. I wanted people to understand what it felt like to have you slowly ripped apart and torn away from me. Your energy is my energy. You are a part of my soul, and watching you die killed parts of me each day. I needed someone to understand that but I know that no-one can because our experiences, our story, our love, was just ours.

It has been hard to sit down and write about our memories, our stories. The last time I did, the girls loved it. They were drawn in to every detail of our life and it really uplifted me. For a moment, I thought writing about you, or to you, would come easy but those moments are fleeting because I am still just grieving you so heavily. I don't cry everyday anymore, but in reality, I do cry every other day. Sometimes they are short, subtle, and a momentary tear that falls off my chin. Other times they are such a painful ailment it is like my nervous system is being attacked by cancerous cells and my mind is riddled with guilt, anxiety, sadness, and the feeling of being so so alone. This is tough.

When I talk about grief and missing you with Bryce, or others who have lost their parents to soon, it doesn't feel like anyone can grasp the severity of my heartache. I am wrong in that thought. I am sure the pain and fire within me burns for others too but our relationship was different than most. I love you as my dad, my protector, my guidance, the bravest woods man, the grumpy-Gus, my teacher and I also love you like a child. I know that sounds weird but as we grew up together, I, in many ways, cared for you like a parent would a child. I brought you groceries, I managed all of your appointments, I gave you rides, and I would pay your bills even though I know that was a tough pill for you to swallow. I didn't mind. I'd do it all again, better this time, but we learn in retrospect and I often let the guilt of "I shoulda, coulda, woulda" consume me. I knew you were dying, I knew you would be gone in the blink of an eye, and I still blinked a little too long. It still came too fast. I still didn't say enough.

I want to start writing about the good times. The memories. The stories you wrote down for me. I want to start thinking of you and feeling joy and peace in your memory... but "I'm not ready" and I don't know when I will be. I was at peace letting you go in the hospital because I knew it was the right choice for you but it wasn't for me. I wanted to be selfish and fight for your life. I wanted to keep you with me a little longer. I wanted one more chance to make you proud and to make you smile. I didn't want to say goodbye. I hope that you understood, and that you were proud of me for staying strong for you. This is tough.

Today I sat on the deck at the tower and looked over the beautiful State of Alaska and I thanked you, and mom, for bringing my into this life. This exact life brought me to this moment and I am really grateful to be living a life people dream about or watch on television. You chased that dream for you but gifted it to me. As I sat and looked out over the green rolling hills backed against sharp and cold mountain peaks I saw cotton floating through the air whimsically. Like the lightest snowfall on a hot summer day. It brought me back to sitting in your driveway with you. We didn't say much. Just sat in our camp chairs, looking about at the green, blue, and fluffy whites. You mumbled something like "damn snow" and I asked you to repeat yourself. In your goofy way you said "I'm in the snow!" and then after a fleeting realization of what winter brings you said quietly "I'm not ready...."

In the moment you meant ready for winter - you worried about all it takes to prepare for the Alaskan winters you loved. Chopping firewood, insulating the cabins more, loading up groceries for the cabin. I knew where your mind went. Straight to Heart Lake, your paradise. A paradise that often kept you away from me but now I understand that it was your peace.

You sat there and I wondered where your mind really went. Did we both know at the back of our minds that you may not get the opportunity and time to prepare for winter like you once did? When you said those words, "I'm not ready..." my heart started to crumble because you weren't ready to die and we both knew death was knocking. Your body was giving up on you long before this moment. I hear those words, in your voice, so often. I wasn't ready either dad. This is tough.