Author: thoughtsfromareillygirl

It’s amazing when you lose a parent, how your perspective on things can change so drastically.  Not right away, but as you are stumbling along the grief journey, the fog starts to lift, and things are just different.    Everything is a new normal when you lose someone, and your world is turned upside down.  That is not unusual.  For me, what I began to analyze were my friends.   What did I learn? That I am one lucky person.

It began out of necessity, really during the last six weeks my dad was sick.  I was spending as much time as possible on Long Island at my parents, and I had to rely on certain people to cover the kids at home.  Friends, neighbors, parents of Riley’s classmates who I did not know well all pitched in.  Many had the common denominator as me as having lost a parent as well, but regardless, I had a village to count on.  The kids had rides, we had meals, I had support, and most of all I had the flexibility to spend as much time as I needed to be with my dad.  What do people do who do not have a network like this?

There was the friend who I could text any time day/night who would respond with the best advice, a prayer, a quote, a ‘virtual hug’ – having just been where I was a few months prior.  We had been friendly through rec sports over the years, and Facebook kept us up to date with current events.  She reached out to me when I needed “that person” and I never would have made it without her.  Now I consider her one of my closest friends, an advocate, a blessing.  Losing our parents solidified what will be an eternal friendship? Yes, sad but true, and another reality I never would have imagined.

There are old friends, who no matter what, just know.  They’ve been there through thick and thin, and are available at a moments notice.  They can stay on the phone with you through two hours of traffic on the way home from seeing your dad, as you cry your eyes out and fight the urge to turn around and race back to him…and they can convince you can’t, that you need to get home to your kids, be a mother, but you can return tomorrow.

Sometimes you realize there are friends who need to go.   The people that you thought would be there for you, and somehow were not.  You thought you might receive a card, or that they would definitely come to the wake, or even stop by your house in the weeks that followed, but they have disappeared.  And you realize, that this isn’t the first time they have bailed on you, and it just seals the deal.  The funny thing is, it’s not sad, because you have all these other friends instead.  It’s refreshing in a way.

I feel like I have such a vast network of friends surrounding me.  I can only hope to reciprocate this type of kind, generous, loving friendship to my friends moving forward.

Life is short.  Surround yourself with the best.  Be the best.  Be kind and generous.  That is how my pop lived.  That is what I plan to continue doing.

So as the fog lifts, and I feel the “me” coming back to life, I have to say to you all, thank you for being my friend.

One of my fondest memories as a little girl, was waiting for my dad to come home for work –  my mom and I would watch out the front bay window in the living room, or sit on the front steps and ‘count the cars’.  We would try to guess how many more cars would pass by until daddy pulled into the driveway, how many red cars were coming up the road, how many blue ones, etc…  When he finally drove up, and wearily got out of the car after working long days at multiple jobs, I would run as fast as I could into his arms.  He would scoop me up, and ‘carry me like a frog’ into the house, and twirl me around.   I only understand now, how bone tired he must have been.

I was 29, my son was 15 months old & I pregnant with my 2nd child.  We were living in our first house, about 90 minutes from my parents home on Long Island.   My mom and dad started to make weekly visits, usually on Wednesdays.   I was tired, frazzled, and overwhelmed.  But not on those visiting days!  As soon as they would call and let me know they had crossed the George Washington Bridge, Tyler and I would sit on the front steps and wait.  We would count the cars and  guess the colors.  Tyler was just as excited as I was.  We would see their car, and he would clap his hands and jump up and down.   As soon as they pulled in, and my dad got out of the car, I would run to him.  Something about my dad getting out of that car was so comforting.  When my dad was there, everything was going to be alright.

Fast forward 40 years…the final weeks, than days of my dad’s life.  Driving out to Long Island day after day, pulling up to my parents home, parking the car, gathering up my things, and…waiting a moment – collecting my thoughts, preparing myself for whatever scene was to unfold that day.   As soon as I would enter the house, I would run.  I would race up the stairs, and get to him.  I was always waiting, then running.  I couldn’t get to him fast enough.

It’s 7 months today that I lost my dad, and boy do I miss the waiting and running.  It’s hard to give up things you’ve done your entire life, the things that became second nature, the things that brought you so much comfort and joy.

I’ve been waiting to feel stronger, to feel lighter, and more free from the heavy burden of grief.  It’s starting to happen.  There are less days spent crying, and more days laughing and remembering, and making new memories.  My faith is stronger, and I know he is always with me.  I know, that someday, I’ll be running into his arms once again.

In the five months since my dad passed, I have been hit with moments of grief at the most unusual times.  A friend of mine described these as ‘waves of grief’ – you are feeling good, making progress, having a ‘normal’ day, and all of a sudden something triggers a memory, and you are knocked down.   As the days, weeks, and now months have passed, it has become much easier to pick myself up from these moments.  I have even been able to get through some of them without losing it and becoming a hysterical mess, but taken it to the other extreme.  I was able to smile, and bask in the joy of that memory, realizing just how lucky I was to have had that experience with my dad.  Is this growth?  is this healing along the grief journey?

Some of the triggers are small, and pass without much fanfare.  Passing by an item at the bakery that I used to bring him, and I’d feel that tug in my heart knowing I would not be ordering it that day.   Putting rice pudding in my shopping cart at the Market Basket, and remembering two aisles later, that he was gone.  So much of my dad was imbedded into my daily life.  I might not have seen him daily, or sometimes weekly, but he was such a huge part of me, that he was fully encompassed in my soul.

This week, my youngest daughter and I stopped for a quick breakfast at an old fashioned ‘luncheonette’ near our home.  The kind with a counter, silver bar stools with red vinyl seats that spin, and the happy short order cook greeting you as you came in.  My dad LOVED a good local luncheonette.  The luncheonette was not the trigger, but the bar stools is what got me.  They were all empty, but what did I see?  I saw my dad on one, and a skinny 5 year old girl, swinging her legs, and talking his ear off, relishing in alone time with her daddy.   My dad would take me out early on Saturday mornings to “Mr. Donut”, and we would have breakfast.  Sometimes, an elderly gentlemen that was a regular, (I knew him as Mr. George) would let me pick out a dozen donuts to bring home for my sisters.  It feels like yesterday, but we did this for a very long time.  I was a lucky girl in so many aspects, being the youngest of 5 daughters,  my alone time with my dad was precious.  That never changed.  Up until the last moment I spent with him alone with him before he passed.   I think we will be spending more time at that luncheonette.

The grief journey is hard.  The road is not easy, but the pain is lifting, and my strength is coming back.  My daughters paid me the highest compliment last night when they told me they were proud of me and how well I was handling things now.  I said “really?  I’m still struggling girls”.   But they reminded me where I began five months ago, and where I am now, and coming from the two that have been affected the most by my grief,  I felt a sense of victory.  Maybe, just maybe, I am going to be okay.

I love you dad.  I miss you.  Thank you for the signs.

Father’s Day without you…

Sunday is Father’s day. A holiday filled with cards, searching for the perfect gifts, and handmade keepsakes from small children. It might be another typical hallmark holiday to some, but to us, it was always special. When you have an incredible dad, a day to celebrate him is a welcome one.
My dad loved fathers day. With five daughters and a devoted wife, he was spoiled that day and he basked in it. His booming voice as we would enter the house, “What’d you bring me?” and no matter the size or shape of the package, he would always exclaim, “Yup, I bet it’s a bowling ball”. He loved presents, he loved bakery boxes, he loved anything we’d bring him.

This year is different. This year I dread it. This is our first year without him. When fathers day rolls around this year, my dad will have been gone four months already. Four months of learning to live without him, learning to navigate life as an adult daughter without her dad. What does one do? How do we approach this and not crumble?

For the last two years, I would argue with Brian that we would need to spend fathers day with MY family, because of my fathers failing health and weakened state. I would remind him over and over ‘it could be his last fathers day’, and we would spend it with my dad. We had this conversation last year, never thinking it would actually come true. I wish it hadn’t become a reality.

As with my approach to all difficult things, I seek the advice of dear friends who have been in the same place, I read my grief books, look for guidance in my daily meditation books, and I pray to him for the strength to just get through another ‘first’. We will seek signs, look for cardinals, & wait for that feeling of peace that comes every so often when his spirit is near.

The Reilly girls will be together on Sunday, with our families, and most importantly our Mom. We will “get through this together” as my dad told us we would, and I pray we feel him, and I pray that he feels the never ending love we will be sending him.

Happy Father’s Day Dad.
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