Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

I struggled to write this post because it’s Father’s Day weekend and you’re not here. It’s difficult knowing we would’ve been going to the Dodgers game on Saturday because that’s what we did. If the Dodgers were in town during Father’s Day weekend, we’d go see them and get the best seats we could because whenever you’d take us to a baseball game for my birthday or whenever the Red Sox were in town you’d get the best seats on the lower level behind home plate. Those games were always so much fun even though I didn’t cheer on the Dodgers. You’d sit there with your earphones so you could hear the radio play of the game, periodically filling in with any commentary or trivia you wanted to share as we snacked on peanuts and the Boston Baked Beans candy.  And then the next morning we’d go to Marmalade Cafe so you can get your eggs Benedict and those delicious potatoes. 

Baseball is what connected us and the season just isn’t the same without you. I find myself not watching it as much even though I paid for the baseball package to watch the Red Sox (hopefully) go for another World Series win. Their season isn’t going as swimmingly well as the Dodgers so maybe this is LA’s year to take it all. I know you wanted them to beat the Red Sox in October but you graciously gave me your Congratulations after the World Series was over. You always cheered on the Red Sox even when the Dodgers weren’t playing. And yes, of course, I secretly, and not so secretly, returned the favor when the roles were reversed. 

I remember when you told me the Red Sox were coming back to play the Dodgers in July, but unfortunately for us, the game is in Boston. So we set our sights on the Dodgers and Yankees game in August for my birthday. Because that’s what we usually did for my birthday, baseball.

No, baseball just isn’t the same. 

Life just isn’t the same. 

At times I find myself not knowing what I’m doing, or feeling. I can’t decide on what I want. This was worse in the beginning. 

I could feel numb, and in disbelief, and other times, I felt all the emotions. Days have gotten easier and I feel good, but then there are moments when I wonder when those really easy days will come. Grief can hit in an instant. In a moment. And then that moment passes and I’m back to feeling fine again.

I think the hardest part since you left is having a lot of unanswered questions. So many things I want to know and will never know. 

Did you know you were going to leave us that day, 6 days before your birthday? And on President’s Day of all days. If baseball connected us, politics disconnected us so the irony of you leaving us on President’s Day wasn’t lost on us. 

But that day, when I told you the lineup of films on the Turner Classic Movies channel that morning you were so excited. 

“Ben-Hur, High Noon…” 

“Ooh good movies,” you replied.

But an hour after we left, you were gone. Did you wait for us to leave?

Sometimes during a race, I find myself feeling what I thought was struggling and what is called “chosen suffering.” I’m ashamed for even thinking that way. I had no fucking clue what suffering was. Nobody does until they bear witness to someone in a hospital bed unable to move, unable to cough, unable to feel any hope of ever leaving the hospital ever again, unable to sleep because every hour nurses and doctors are constantly coming into the room checking blood pressure, blood sugar, administering medicine, draw blood, undergoing respiratory treatments, not to mention the constant beeping from the monitors and oxygen trying to help you breathe. And that’s not even half of it. But we make lemonade, right?

I found myself getting annoyed whenever I heard, or read someone complaining about something; even the simplest of things. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. It’s raining. I have to run on the treadmill; a word I think I’ll forever not like.

Complaining. I’ve been guilty of that too, but now I try and catch myself if I find myself doing it. It’s not easy and I don’t always recognize it – ugh why is the internet so slow – but complaints do absolutely nothing and life just gives you more tedious bullshit things to complain about. 

I suppose my tolerance level for complaining has dropped.

I know your body was exhausted. 

We didn’t want to lose faith that you’d get better, but the mountain was too large to conquer. Healing didn’t seem possible. When we told you, “We’ll be okay,” and you responded “I know you will,” I wonder if you knew we didn’t quite believe it at the time, but I suppose with more time, it’ll be true.

I don’t think you were ready to go, but your body was. I wasn’t ready for you to go. We weren’t ready! 

Yes, I’m grateful I had extra time with you that last month and especially that final week because I know others don’t get that, but the time wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

June 18th will mark 4 months since you left us and I still can’t believe how fast time has flown by and yet, I remember that final week like it was yesterday. 

The hardest part is not so much mourning the things we did, but mourning for the things we won’t be able to do. We had baseball games to go to, trips we were thinking of, and concerts we wanted to take you to. We had birthdays and holidays we wanted to share. We simply can’t call you, and ask about how your golf game was, or what you were doing that day, or what do think about the upcoming Dodgers or Rams seasons? It’s a year of firsts for us. But I know you would’ve wanted to be here for all of those things too.

I know people who have lost their parents, spouse, children, or close relatives and I’ve always felt sad for them, but I never understood the depth of grief until now. The emotional pain is immeasurable.

Running has helped, but I haven’t done as much of it this year. That’s okay. I struggle with the lack of consistency but have accepted this is how life is for me right now. I do what I can, when I can and I’m grateful for those times when I put on the running shoes (when I don’t talk myself out of it).

I race coming up in a couple of weeks that I’m not prepared for, but I’ll do my best. It’s the one you asked me about back in January. 

When your body was failing you, you wanted to know about my running. It’s the thing you told your friends about. I wondered how they knew when they would come up to me and say, “Are you the runner?” “Oh, you’re the one who does all the marathons.” 

When I plan on running Javelina Jundred again next year I wish you could be there. If I go, I know you’ll be there in spirit, but it’s not the same. I’m grateful you were able to go to one of my trail races and I know you had such a kick out of being there. Now both you and Western Town at Paramount Ranch are gone. Remember I told you it burned in the Woolsey Fire and you were bummed about that? The only difference is, it can be rebuilt.

I’m still maneuvering my way through the grief waters, but I try to find joy in the little things even though we still face a lot of challenges and uncertainty. Yes, life does get a little easier each day and I can get through a day without breaking down and crying so I’ve come a way since February.

Last month one of my favorite bands, The Head and the Heart put out a new album and as I watched their live album release concert on TV I just started crying, but they weren’t tears from sadness. I realized it was the first time this year that I felt pure joy and absolute happiness at that moment. All from hearing this new music. I was so excited for this album and I felt a little like my old self again. 

And then it happened again on Friday. 

It was a tough emotional week approaching Father’s Day weekend, and what were the chances that of all weekends, Bruce Springsteen would release his new album?! Really. Of all weekends?! He could’ve selected any other Friday. Part of me wants to believe you had a hand in this so thank you.

Thank you for buying me my first album when I was 4 years old and passing on your love of music to me I will have the rest of my life.

Thank you for instilling a love of baseball in me. Thank you for taking me to my first baseball game when I was 6 or 7 and explaining to me the crowd wasn’t booing the player. They were saying his name, Boone. Thank you for taking me to Candlestick Park to see the San Francisco Giants play because I loved the Giants, and loved Will Clark. I will always cherish the Mother’s Cookies sign you asked the store clerk if I could get because Will Clark was on it and I was a big fan. 

Thank you for always taking us to the movies and making us love them as much as you did. 

Thank you for your sense of humor and spontaneous jokes. They even surfaced during your final days, and oh man, we laughed.

Thank you for your kind and generous heart. Almost too generous. 

Thank you for your support and encouragement that wasn’t always there when I was growing up, but you made up for it. There was a time when we didn’t have the best relationship, but I wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Thank you for coming into my dream on Friday and showing me how happy you were and that’s how I want to remember you.

I know you’re here Dad. I know you’re watching over us. I know you send me signs of your presence. I know you’re no longer suffering, and you’re in heaven playing all the golf you want, drinking Tecate, and surrounded by all the loved ones that went before you.

I just wish I could hear your jokes, and hug you, and hold your hand, and brush your hair, and tell you how much I love you one more time.

But I know I’ll see you again one day. Not yet. But one day. 

Happy Father’s Day Dad