Wonder: 8 Years Dadless
We put in somewhere outside of Ely, Minnesota.
I was ecstatic; 7 days with high school friends and one of my favorite teachers out in the Boundary Waters, portaging from lake-to-lake laden with packs, paddles and canoes. We had no distractions. iPods--and the few cell phones--were left at base-camp. Only thoughts of our own natural existence could draw attention away from the wild beauty before us. It was June 2007, and I was primed for what I thought would be the most memorable trip of my life. Turns out, I was more right than I wanted to be.
That Boundary Water excursion is burned into my memory, and not because it had some transcendental effect that only Thoreau could contrive. I remember that week more clearly than yesterday because my dad died. He didn't pass in Minnesota, but back home in Centerville, Ohio, while he was out on a training ride for the MS-150. Apparently he wasn't feeling well halfway through the ride, so one teammate went to get the car, while another sat down with him in the shade of a tree.
Moments later, an unknown teetering blockage in his coronary artery finally tipped. He collapsed. His ride companion called 911 and began CPR. The medics were able to restart his heart in the ambulance, but somewhere they had passed the point of no return. My dad was brain dead.
Meanwhile I was busy having the time of my life, marveling at beauty I could hardly comprehend. I was completely oblivious to the helplessness and heartbreak my surviving mother, brother and sister were living each second. Each trail guide had a satellite phone for emergency outgoing calls, but it wasn't to be used otherwise. When our fleet of canoes glided into the docks 3 or 4 days later, someone with a large portable phone was there waiting for us. "Is there an Erin Petree with you? She needs to call home." From then on out, I've been dad-less.
Fast forward 8 years.
I'm an adventurously independent 25 year old living in NYC. Last night, I was having drinks with a good friend of mine in the West Village at 8th Street Wine Cellar (great happy hour!). I mentioned that tomorrow (June 24th), was the start of the 8th year sans papa. My friend asked solemnly, "Does it get easier?" I paused only a moment before answering, "No, it just gets different."
“Losing a parent doesn’t get easier with time, it gets different.”
Sure, you don't cry as often as you used to. You rarely curse whoever's up there for passing you such a raw deal. But your sadness doesn't dissolve, it evolves. For me, the moments I miss my dad the most are nestled in times of change or frustration. I miss him when I'm wrestling with a question like:
Which couch should I buy?
Should I counter a job offer?
Do I really need trip protection?
Is the basic dental plan okay, or do I need premium?
Should I invest?
What's love?
What isn't love?
Trivial or serious--those little questions make that familial void feel heavy. It hurts when I think of all the moments in our lives he's already missed out on--moments I remember speculating with him about. I ache when I remember he won't walk me down the aisle, or hold my children.
Yes, the tears come less often. The grief no longer affects your appetite. You can (typically) watch a father-daughter moment IRL or on TV without losing your composure. But I miss my dad no less than I did on this day, 8 years ago.
Here's to you, dad. Happy 8th anniversary of catching muskie, drinking Bud Light and chillin' on that remote lake you picked out somewhere. Stay put--I'll meet you there.
