Coming up on three years ago my father “passed away”. He went to a better place, is no more, ceased to exist, relinquished life, went with God or however you would like me to so sensitively put it; my dad is dead.
I went into the office today and found what I gave my dad two summers ago for his last Father’s Day. “50 Reasons Why a Daughter Needs Her Dad” A tin accordion style list of reasons I made, and number one was: “To make her smile when she wants to cry.”
Although I don’t find an ounce of him being gone humorous, I find myself cracking what I have come to call “dead dad jokes.” Ironically, no one laughs except me. (and sometimes my best friend whose dad died when she was young too.) I create an awful, awkward moment, which we have to linger in until I collect myself, apologize and explain.
For example when talking about the upcoming Father’s Day weekend, a friend asked what my plans were. I responded nonchalantly, “I don’t have many big plans, I mean my dad’s dead so I don’t really do that anymore.” My laughter continues to disturb them, but I’m only chuckling at their uncomfortable expression and lack of response.
Sometimes a simple, “How are you?” can get an unexpected, “Fine, I woke up today and my dad was still dead, but I’m having a really good hair day,” reply.
My “jokes” aren’t really clever or extravagant. I just bluntly bring up the fact that my dad is dead in inappropriate settings. I WANT people to talk about him and ask about him. So I make it clear that it is ok to bring up the topic, I won't burst into tears or start rocking in the corner. If I am the first to "cross the line," then the rest of the conversation is a breeze. I have this overwhelming urge in my heart that I want to introduce my dad to everyone I love. I don’t want to forget where I come from and I want them to know him as well. Because saying, “My dad is dead,” only refers to his physical body.
My dad is more alive than many Earth-walkers I know. He still lives in my ability to laugh instead of cry when I think of him. He lives when I am helping others, giving second chances, hoping for the best, when I buy ice cream, when I fix my car, when I do a jig with my aunts, when I compare boys to his generosity, his know-how, his kindness and ambition.
The very molecules of my dad’s blood were composed of love and laughter, the same blood that my heart pumps through my veins. That is why I want to think of laughing when I think of my dad, even if I make EVEYONE uncomfortable. Even my friends who have been there since he was sick, still shake their heads when I make a comment.
I guess I have dealt with “the death” of my father. I don’t think about his the funeral or his sickness or pain. I just miss my dad and I think about not having him around anymore. So I keep bringing him up like I’m scared I will forget. In doing so, I forget the sensitivity others have to the deaths of their own loved ones, I can be inconsiderate with my dead dad jokes, forgetting that I’m not the only one. It’s an adjustment I am working on. I apologize if I have or if I will push the wrong button for you. Chances are, I will.
I will probably grow out of this strange way of dealing with a dead dad. I realize that even reading this blog is uncomfortable and unfunny to most. For now, it is working for me. I’m making a selfish decision to stick with my #MorbidTweets and awkward conversations until I am better at telling his stories.
Because this is my way of “making the complex simple and the painful bearable.” Just as number 12 says on my list of 50 Reasons Why a Daughter Needs Her Dad. I have to do it for myself because oh, did I mention? My dad is dead.
I know you are probably tired and your eyes are sore from reading this long blog on the computer screen, but hey, at least your dad's not dead.
