Tuesday, March 7, 2017

A letter to your Papa



3/7/17

Dear Dad,

I don't know why it's taken me a full year to write this letter. Every single day, for the past 365 days, it's been on my mind. I've written some version of these words a zillion times in my head. But, somehow, the actual act of sitting down of writing them feels so concrete. It feels like an acknowledgement that you are never going to be here again. I'll never be able to SPEAK these words to you. Some part of me has been waiting and waiting for you to call or show up for dinner so I could tell you all the things I need to tell you.
So I could thank you for my son.

I remember the day I told you I was pregnant. You were laying on mattress on the floor of what was once Doug's room- and later became Ellie's room.
You were flat on your back. Mom was kneeling next to you.
It was a Thursday. You were dying.

It had been six days since we had first discovered I was pregnant. We were so happy. We had hoped and wished and prayed for this baby for so long. We had actually even begun to grieve the possible reality that there may never be a baby. Then- BAM- it felt like a huge miracle to see that positive pregnancy test...
Funny to think back on that moment, and how tiny THAT miracle was in comparison to all the miracles yet to come.

It had been two days since I had started bleeding and one day since the doctor had told us I had an internal hemorrhage and she was not optimistic that the baby would be OK.

I didn't tell you all of that on that Thursday. I only told you that I was pregnant. I didn't want you to worry. I just wanted you to be happy about another grandbaby.

You LOVED your grandchildren so much. I've never known another grown up who can PLAY and be present and make a child feel like they are the most important person in the world- like you could.

I wanted you to have a moment of joy as you lay on that bed. Slipping away. Dying before my eyes.

The days that followed were a blur of magic and pain. We sat with you as you made your way from this world to what comes next. We played old CDs of you singing- on repeat- over and over. We read books and told stories and jokes. The kids came to visit. Ellie read you the old copy of Berenstain Bears- The Spooky Old Tree...just like you used to read it to her.

We all knew you were leaving. In our own ways, each of us said good bye.
Good bye Husband
Good bye Daddy
Good bye Papa
Good bye Keely

You woke up for a brief moment sometime between Friday and Monday and kissed me on my forehead. I could hear your voice saying "I love you Munk".

You died on Tuesday.

On Wednesday we went back to the doctor.

The news she gave was not what we had expected.

The baby looks great! She said. It looks like his heart started beating within the last 24-48 hours. The bleeding has resolved and everything looks fine.

My heart stopped in that moment.

"Thank you dad" - was all I could think.

In your last moments- somehow you still managed to do one more remarkable act of love for your little girl. For me.

Until the end of time I will believe you saved my son. That somehow, at just the right time, the two of you passed each other. That you got to meet Jordan and pass on your joy and wisdom just as his heart started beating.

Jordan is one today.

He's the happiest, silliest, most loving boy. He loves music and snuggles and laughter.
He reminds me of you.

I know you watch over us. I know you protect and love us from where you are.

We miss you Papa.

Thank you for loving us all so well.

Thank you for baby j.

Love,
Munk

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