First day without Dad

Hey, Dad. Today is the first time I’ve woken up and you weren’t there. It was, well, weird.

In some ways, it wasn’t as difficult as I thought it was going to be. I did have a hell of a time getting to sleep. For three weeks, I slept in your Lazy Boy beside you. You got up so many times throughout the night, and I had to make sure you were still breathing every time I rolled over, so I got about four hours of sleep per night.

Last night, about 12 hours after you passed, I just couldn’t sleep. I rolled over several times. I cried a little. My eyes and heart were heavy. I kept thinking, “Tomorrow will be the first time I wake up and you’re not there.”

I slept OK when I did finally fall asleep. I woke up at about 9 a.m. I wanted to sleep for days, but I remember what you told me as the end neared: “Son, life goes on.”

We had an important meeting at work today, and though I have a few weeks off, I went in anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do. It was only an hour, after all. It seemed like something you would do.

I also went to the gym for some circuit training: Eight lifts and running with five sets of each. I wondered if the motivation to work out would fade after you died, but I was at the gym 24 hours later. 

A few times, I told myself it’d be fine if I didn’t exercise today. “Give yourself time,” my inner voice said. But I remembered a promise I made to you nine years ago when I was 320 pounds and you started working out with me. I told you I’d get back in shape and stay that way. I figured working out was a good way to honor you.

I also drove to Dan’s today to deliver a flash drive with photos of you for Saturday’s service. I spent three hours Monday night scanning in and photoshopping images. I think you’d be happy with the presentation we put together. There are nearly 200 photos of you with family and friends.

Through all this, I held it together pretty well. That is until I had a moment alone in your bedroom. 

As everybody went outside for a swim, I stayed behind to take a break. After a few minutes, I walked toward the room. I walked through the doorway and past your bed. Some of your clothes are still sitting there. Your old desk and computer are there. The Lazy Boy is still angled as it was during the three weeks I slept next to you.

After a few moments, I stopped and took a deep breath. It hit me that the room still smelled like you. That sent me over the edge. I took it in a for a few minutes with tears streaming down my face, scanning the framed photo of my graduation from grad school that mom gave to you a few months ago, as well as your weathered, but comfortable slippers, and your trademark Webb Craft hat.

I suspect there will be thousands of moments like this for the rest of my life when it just hits me that you’re not here anymore. I miss you, Dad. A lot. 

Love you.