Thank You God
Thank You, God
For the first anniversary of your death, I stayed home from school. Aunt Natalie and Uncle Victor flew up here and we had a Memorial Mass and dinner for you. It was Catholic. Old-school. I think you would’ve liked it. Last year on this day, starting first period I cried nonstop. By the time Mr. Capecci’s eighth period Psych class rolled around, I was shattered and everybody could see. I asked him, about two months after you died when I was just so exhausted from grief and had lost so much hope and spirit, “Mr. Capecci, does this ever get any easier?” You see, he also lost his father about seven years prior and for whatever reason, however presumptuous it was, I felt that when he lost his Dad and his family lost their Poppy, they knew the level of pain that I was going through – at least at that moment. Because fortunately or unfortunately in my case, not a lot of people around me could relate to pain like that.
He simply replied, “Yes, it does,” and said that it just takes time, that you can’t rush these things, to just wait. “I’ve had seven years. You’ve had what, two months?” I remember it seemed almost comical to me, like two months was this gargantuan amount of time in which I should've gotten done all of my mourning in, got finished with the random outbursts of crying whenever anything reminded me of a particularly beautiful memory of you. And yet this is the third year, and I’m still wondering when his words are finally going to ring true.
Three years, Dad. Three years and I still remember that day like it was yesterday. You called me after school and asked me how my day was, just like you always did. I was tired, and like a true teenager blew you off with quick answers and one-word responses and told you I was going to take a nap. You said you were tired too and were going to do the same thing. Then one of us woke up and the other one didn’t. You were sick for a while and Mom thought that you knew when you called that it would be for the last time. I don't know if that is true or not, but when we were figuring out your time of death, we found out I was the last person you ever spoke to. You said, “I love you,” and I didn’t say it back, which wasn’t unusual for us, but that is the part I regret most of all now.
Oh Dad, so much has happened since then. I graduated, went off to college. Antony got married. We’ve become so close… He knows what I’m thinking, what I’m doing even before I do and it is the same way for me with him. Victoria just finished her first semester of Law School. And she has a girlfriend now whom she really loves. You would’ve liked her – doesn’t matter the gender, you would’ve liked her because she takes care of your “baby girl” like you always called us. You loved her, your niece, just as much as you did me. You treated Victoria as if she were your daughter and Michael like your son. When you passed, they lost just as much of a father figure as Antony and I did.
You didn’t get to spend your thirtieth wedding anniversary with Mom last year, even though you guys literally spent every other one together even after the separation, you weirdos. Despite everything, she took your loss the hardest and after you died, we all had to remain strong for her. I've never seen a person be in so much grief, have so much anguish and regret and have just complete hatred of the universe until I saw her trying to mourn your loss. Not long after everything happened, Mrs. Capecci asked me how she was holding up and all I could say was that “she’s a mess.” That was the understatement of the year.
Dad, you’ve always been my greatest teacher and you’ve given me many lessons in the short time that we’ve spent together, but the last one – the hardest one – was learning how to deal with all of this. How to live life and how to live it without you. The night that you died, during that whole week actually, I remember every single phone call and text I received from distant relatives, friends, and friends’ parents. All the pats on the back I got from teachers and family friends, compliments on how “strong” I looked and reassurances that “everything’s in God’s hands,” Mr. Nichols called me some character from Braveheart – which to tell you the truth, I didn’t totally get the reference since I’d never seen the movie – I remember all of it but most of all I remember how at a loss for words I was after them. I didn’t know how to respond, just smiling and politely saying “Thank you,” and pretending I was okay when I wasn’t even close. But what I had to learn – what you had to show me – was although I wasn't then, I was going to be and that was enough.
That day, you finally taught me the meaning of the word tough – something you’ve never been able to do at this extent before. Because in retrospect, Dad, you coddled me. Me and everyone else you loved. And no, I don’t mean that in a spoiled-brat sort of way (definitely not in that sort of way! Oh man, how could we forget all of the scoldings and spankings and groundings we all got when we were kids!) but in the way that you’ve always given us everything that we needed. That’s what made your death so much harder for me. And for that in itself, I can only be grateful.
So in a very long and convoluted way, I just wanted to say Thank You, Dad. Thank you for your life and thank you for mine. Through this experience, for showing me exactly who I can be. For teaching me how to value the people that helped me during the worst time in my life and to in turn love and care for those whom need help for themselves. For teaching me how to pray. For teaching me how to laugh. Laugh at everything. Smile at anything. Be pleasantly bewildered by life’s twists and turns. You taught me that, Dad, and I do it every single day. And I hope to God that you are proud of me.
When I get down on my knees to pray at night like you taught me – which, I’ll be honest, doesn’t happen every night – I always finish them with, “Thank you for fifteen amazing years with my Dad.” I know you’d never believe me if I told you this in person, but I am proud to have been your daughter and I am grateful for the lessons that you’ve given me, the respect you commanded, the values you’ve instilled in me, and the excitement and spunk you brought into all of our lives. Dad, I am the person that I am because of you. Whether in spite or by example, it was you. And no matter how strong I think I am, no matter how nonchalant I may act whenever your death is brought up, or how carefree or even callous I may seem, know that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that will ever stop that giant pang I feel in my heart every time I say the phrase “my Dad” to anyone, or the emotion that comes with your memory, or the sheer pain I feel every year on this day. Because through it all you were my father, and you never gave up on me. Your unconditional love for me never wavered. And I promise that I’ll continue to love you, and honor you, and mourn you, and let myself cry over you for the rest of my life for which you should’ve been here to see.
Thank you, God, for fifteen amazing years with my Dad.
Man how I wish for just fifteen seconds more.
He simply replied, “Yes, it does,” and said that it just takes time, that you can’t rush these things, to just wait. “I’ve had seven years. You’ve had what, two months?” I remember it seemed almost comical to me, like two months was this gargantuan amount of time in which I should've gotten done all of my mourning in, got finished with the random outbursts of crying whenever anything reminded me of a particularly beautiful memory of you. And yet this is the third year, and I’m still wondering when his words are finally going to ring true.
Three years, Dad. Three years and I still remember that day like it was yesterday. You called me after school and asked me how my day was, just like you always did. I was tired, and like a true teenager blew you off with quick answers and one-word responses and told you I was going to take a nap. You said you were tired too and were going to do the same thing. Then one of us woke up and the other one didn’t. You were sick for a while and Mom thought that you knew when you called that it would be for the last time. I don't know if that is true or not, but when we were figuring out your time of death, we found out I was the last person you ever spoke to. You said, “I love you,” and I didn’t say it back, which wasn’t unusual for us, but that is the part I regret most of all now.
Oh Dad, so much has happened since then. I graduated, went off to college. Antony got married. We’ve become so close… He knows what I’m thinking, what I’m doing even before I do and it is the same way for me with him. Victoria just finished her first semester of Law School. And she has a girlfriend now whom she really loves. You would’ve liked her – doesn’t matter the gender, you would’ve liked her because she takes care of your “baby girl” like you always called us. You loved her, your niece, just as much as you did me. You treated Victoria as if she were your daughter and Michael like your son. When you passed, they lost just as much of a father figure as Antony and I did.
You didn’t get to spend your thirtieth wedding anniversary with Mom last year, even though you guys literally spent every other one together even after the separation, you weirdos. Despite everything, she took your loss the hardest and after you died, we all had to remain strong for her. I've never seen a person be in so much grief, have so much anguish and regret and have just complete hatred of the universe until I saw her trying to mourn your loss. Not long after everything happened, Mrs. Capecci asked me how she was holding up and all I could say was that “she’s a mess.” That was the understatement of the year.
Dad, you’ve always been my greatest teacher and you’ve given me many lessons in the short time that we’ve spent together, but the last one – the hardest one – was learning how to deal with all of this. How to live life and how to live it without you. The night that you died, during that whole week actually, I remember every single phone call and text I received from distant relatives, friends, and friends’ parents. All the pats on the back I got from teachers and family friends, compliments on how “strong” I looked and reassurances that “everything’s in God’s hands,” Mr. Nichols called me some character from Braveheart – which to tell you the truth, I didn’t totally get the reference since I’d never seen the movie – I remember all of it but most of all I remember how at a loss for words I was after them. I didn’t know how to respond, just smiling and politely saying “Thank you,” and pretending I was okay when I wasn’t even close. But what I had to learn – what you had to show me – was although I wasn't then, I was going to be and that was enough.
That day, you finally taught me the meaning of the word tough – something you’ve never been able to do at this extent before. Because in retrospect, Dad, you coddled me. Me and everyone else you loved. And no, I don’t mean that in a spoiled-brat sort of way (definitely not in that sort of way! Oh man, how could we forget all of the scoldings and spankings and groundings we all got when we were kids!) but in the way that you’ve always given us everything that we needed. That’s what made your death so much harder for me. And for that in itself, I can only be grateful.
So in a very long and convoluted way, I just wanted to say Thank You, Dad. Thank you for your life and thank you for mine. Through this experience, for showing me exactly who I can be. For teaching me how to value the people that helped me during the worst time in my life and to in turn love and care for those whom need help for themselves. For teaching me how to pray. For teaching me how to laugh. Laugh at everything. Smile at anything. Be pleasantly bewildered by life’s twists and turns. You taught me that, Dad, and I do it every single day. And I hope to God that you are proud of me.
When I get down on my knees to pray at night like you taught me – which, I’ll be honest, doesn’t happen every night – I always finish them with, “Thank you for fifteen amazing years with my Dad.” I know you’d never believe me if I told you this in person, but I am proud to have been your daughter and I am grateful for the lessons that you’ve given me, the respect you commanded, the values you’ve instilled in me, and the excitement and spunk you brought into all of our lives. Dad, I am the person that I am because of you. Whether in spite or by example, it was you. And no matter how strong I think I am, no matter how nonchalant I may act whenever your death is brought up, or how carefree or even callous I may seem, know that there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that will ever stop that giant pang I feel in my heart every time I say the phrase “my Dad” to anyone, or the emotion that comes with your memory, or the sheer pain I feel every year on this day. Because through it all you were my father, and you never gave up on me. Your unconditional love for me never wavered. And I promise that I’ll continue to love you, and honor you, and mourn you, and let myself cry over you for the rest of my life for which you should’ve been here to see.
Thank you, God, for fifteen amazing years with my Dad.
Man how I wish for just fifteen seconds more.