In memory of my Father...

No one ever tells you that when someone close to you dies it feels like a part of you died too. But it does. No one tells you that for years after that person is gone the anniversary of their death will tear you apart. But it does.

My Father died eight years ago today. You would think that by now I would be able to handle it, that the years that have passed since his death would have mellowed my pain. But they haven't.

I left home at an early age to get away from an extremely abusive Mother. For years I had no contact with my family, except for my Father. My Mother never knew we kept in touch, that Dad would meet me at least once a month for lunch to make sure I was okay and didn't need anything. We had a secret father/daughter relationship because my Mother had disowned me for getting pregnant at such a young age, and for refusing to marry the father of my child.

My Dad was still there for me even though my Mother had decried that contact with me would send her flying to a lawyer to file for divorce. She never knew about the meetings or the times my Dad paid the rent because I was between jobs. She never knew that he never gave up on me. The winter of 1990 (one year before my third daughter was born) was the last time I heard from my Father. In March of 2007 he was hospitalized and three weeks later on April 10th 2007 he lost his fight with cancer. I was unaware of this fact because the rest of my "family" decided to keep it from me.

I would not learn of his death until 2 months before my wedding in 2008, and my family would never tell me where he was buried. So, eight years after his death I still can not get through the day (April 10th) of his death because I was never allowed to say goodbye. I never got to tell him how much he meant to me, or that I loved him deeply. He never got to see his third Grandaughter (Cheyanne born in Sept. of 1991). He never got to hold her, or read to her the way he had read to me every night when I was a child.

I have to believe that if there really is a heaven my Father is there. Everything that is good in me came from him, from the lessons he taught me as I was growing up. Sometimes those were hard lessons to learn, but he was always there to guide me and set me on the right path. My entire rescue career would not exist were it not for my Father who taught me to stand up for what is right and to always protect those who couldn't protect themselves. He was the greatest humanitarian I have ever known, and there are days when I still find myself thinking "I wish Dad were here he'd know just what to do!"

Grieving is hard when you are not allowed to say goodbye. All the things you couldn't tell that person before they died haunt you, there are a lot of thoughts of  "if only I could have...." floating around in your mind. I think maybe that's why I am having such a hard time getting past his death. I can not go to his grave and tell him because I don't know where he is buried, and my family won't tell me. I may never be able to grieve fully, and that's on them.

Daddy, wherever you are I love you and I miss you more than words could ever say.