September

Two weeks ago I went to my Stepmom's house to get some of my father's stuff.  She's been trying to de-clutter her home...and now that Jeff and I have the space, there were some things Dad had given me that she didn't need to keep for us, anymore.  Remember my "beautiful girls" post a couple months ago?  I didn't put my Stepmother, Teresa in it.  However, the reason wasn't because I don't include her in that category.  It's because I knew this post would be coming.  And I think she'll need it more at this time; like I do.  
September 16th will be the first anniversary of my dad's death.  I didn't know how I'd feel about it.  For a while, I thought I'd be just fine...that maybe I'd get by with thinking/remembering the good stuff, and being appreciative of that.  But lately I've been having bad dreams.  I've been remembering things my dad would say or do, or places we'd eat, or his shirts that I'd iron, or any number of things.  And it makes me miss him.  A lot.  
When I went over to Teresa's house, in addition to a lot of tools and household items, she gave me some of my dad's hangers.  I'd iron for him, (something he'd have me do each week to make a few extra bucks when times were hard), I'd hang his shirts up, and then give them to him.  I continued to do this even as things started to get better for us, financially.  It began to be a way that he and I would keep in touch each week, I think.  He'd come drop his shirts by, or I'd pick them up, giving us at least a few minutes each week to talk--in addition to any other time we'd hang out. 
Anyway, as Jeff and I were packing some of my dad's stuff up, Teresa told me she had a lot of extra hangers if I needed any, and I can always use more, so I followed her to her room, to get them.  Hanging there were all my dad's shirts.  The ones that I'd iron each week.  The ones that I occasionally borrowed in high school and wore because at the time REALLY big clothing and flannel were the fad.  And the ones that were literally falling apart because he'd had them for so long, and wore them so often.  Coincidentally, a lot of the same shirts that were falling apart were the ones that I borrowed.  And I started to get teary-eyed.  Teresa had told me that there was a lot that she just couldn't give up yet; things that held memories too raw to part with them.  And at that moment, I could see why.  They still smelled the same.  They still looked the same...the same as all those times they'd be on my ironing board.  And then he'd come get them.  And wear them.  Except that part is different.  Because he won't be wearing them.  Anymore.
Last year after I came back from Colorado, where my father is buried, I kept thinking I'd see him.  I'd see men about the same size and shape, with the same color of hair, and that wore the same type of clothing.  And my heart would stop.  And I'd feel all this hope.  Which is weird, because I knew he was gone.  But in that second, I could totally believe that Dad's death was some type of misconception.  That we had been all confused and things didn't happen the way it seemed.  
Then I'd see I was wrong, and it was like feeling the loss of him all over again.  
At that moment, I realized that Teresa goes through that everyday.  Maybe seeing a towel that he'd use or a cup that was his favorite.  I'm reminded often of how much I love Teresa.  And how much she loved my dad.  Despite his imperfections, and there were many, Teresa loved him.  She sat with him, was by his side the entire time he lay there, dying.  She held his hand and spoke to him like they were having a regular conversation, and she let me and Muff and Jess and all these other people have the time we needed with him.  She changed him and moved him and bathed him...and she took it upon herself, because she knew that Dad would have been too embarrassed to be seen or coddled by anyone else, despite his pain and dementia.  She was strong, and loving and selfless.  And I saw that he was in the best hands possible.  And I thanked Heaven that he had her.  I know that Teresa was my dad's best friend.  He'd told me that more than once.  And Teresa showed me that so many times.
I still have a can of Diet Squirt that he gave me a week before he died.  Riley and Cole both have asked if they could drink it at some point in the last year.  And I can't let them.  It's still in my pantry, looking beat up and old.  And no one would know it was special in any way.  But it is to me.  He gave it to me, because he knew I like it.  I remember him having it in his shaking hand, and giving it to me before I left his house, "for the trip home".  I think about that every time I see it.
Anyway, I know these next few posts of mine will probably be downers for the common reader, but I think I need to get some feelings off of my chest.  And I need to write this down.  Cause keeping it to myself isn't doing me any favors.