or why I write…
10 years is a long time.
You’ve been gone, but life continues. Your youngest son has grown a lot. Found a tremendous woman, married her, and we have a daughter. My daughter is mere months old, and it’s been 10 years since I last saw you in that hospital bed. I try to think of you at my age now, 34. At the time, you would’ve had a 16-year-old (my brother) and a 10-year-old me. Good lord. Can’t imagine. You would’ve been divorced from Mom by this point. Sadly, my memory of those early years isn’t super clear. I still retain bits and pieces—different houses, cars, faces, but disjointed. The timeline is skewed.
The fact you weren’t able to see 50 is a shame. The fact you didn’t get to see both of your boys get married. The fact you didn’t get to meet your granddaughter. Life has been different. You didn’t see your father die, only 6 years after you. You didn’t see your brother pass away, only a few months after that.
We connected more than you did with my brother. Our interests were similar. I was younger when you and Mom divorced. Don’t think it affected me as much as it did him. I was too young and he was a fragile age. I’m glad it happened though. Knowing both you and Mom as adults, it wouldn’t have worked, and we absolutely would have known. Can’t ignore that kind of tension for long.
Thinking back 10 years, I was so different. A lost 24-year-old, soon to be college grad, with no direction. Just met my future wife. I gave your eulogy because no one else would. To be honest, I expected one of your siblings to step up, but none did. Maybe they thought they couldn’t get through it or the priest would say all that was needed, but fuck that. I wasn’t about to let a priest (who didn’t know you) say who and what you were; it’s not fair to you, and frankly, you weren’t religious. Fate would have it, I also delivered your brother’s eulogy and part of your dad’s but that’s another story.
I look back at that time, I’d known you were sick for a while. The moment it really hit me? We had a fishing/camping trip planned together with your brother and his sons (my uncle/cousins). We planned to meet them at the campground. We packed your truck and hitched your boat up and got ready to go. At the last minute, as we shut the door to the house you said, “You drive”. Within the last few months, you bought a new truck and boat, both of which you would’ve never let me drive. Now, you wanted me to drive your new truck towing your new boat for a 2-hour drive in a blinding rain and thunderstorm. That moment really hit me as, oh shit…something is wrong with you.
Now, there were definitely other signs you were sick, but something about that moment made me feel like a kid again, putting it into perspective. Frankly, it scared the hell out of me. Maybe it was your way of preparing me for hard things that you knew were coming. Maybe your body was too broken down at that point more than I knew. Hard to say.
It was hard to see you wither away. I had time to prepare. Quite a few months, as best I could. It wasn’t easy, but I knew. I think the family was optimistic, but I knew. They prayed and told me you’d pull through, but I knew. The part I wasn’t prepared for was to see your parents (my grandparents) break down. These two incredibly stoic, oak tree-type people, breaking down, seeing one of their sons die before them. That really got me.
10 years is a mighty long time. I definitely grew from a boy to a man. During that time, there was definitely a long period of depression, extreme anxiety, all numbed by some form of substance abuse. But thank god for my wife. She was there, showed up when needed, told me to buck up when needed, and gave me the tools I needed to build myself into the man I am today. You would’ve loved her Pops. She’s incredibly smart, beautiful, and too damn funny for her own good. Your oldest son married a magnificent woman too, exactly who he needed. They got married in Vegas just like you and our stepmom. Funny how life is sometimes.
I think you would’ve been a wonderful grandpa. She has our eyes and a little pig nose. Looking back, 10 years, your boys are doing just fine, Pops. We still miss you, and life continues to move. I’m not sure how I’m going to tell my daughter about you. It’ll be with kindness and compassion. Maybe when she’s older, I’ll tell her what happened to you. It’s not an easy thing for a young one to digest. Grandparents are important. Your parents were incredibly important to me. My mom’s dad has been wonderful to me. Her mom died before I was born. Cancer. That’s easier to explain than alcoholism. Maybe when she’s older.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve tried to understand it. I just don’t have the itch. It’s just never been my thing. I know you were in pain. Your back, especially. That I do have. Anxiety as well, and luckily you passed that on to my brother and me. Think we got a double dose from you and mom. I’ve managed mine well enough, but I think the sauce calmed yours. Maybe I’m just projecting. You could’ve had your own demons you were battling. Not worth fretting over now; damage is done.
Obviously, I’ve missed you at big life events since, but it’s the little moments I find myself missing most. Grief doesn’t end; life continues, and it peeks up in little moments. Fishing together, sitting around a fire, watching a comedy together. You were a simple man, and I think I understood you as best as a child to a parent can.
Now I’m a father. She’s only a few months but the love I have for her can be overwhelming. Truly shocking how quickly that switch inside us flips, and they become our whole world. I’ve enjoyed fatherhood so far. Restless nights, throw-up, and dirty diapers. But that cute little smile evaporates the feelings of fatigue.
I’m sure I’ll look back 10 years from now. It’ll be 20 years since you’ve been gone, she’ll be 10, and I’ll be close to the age you passed away. I think I’ll have anxiety reaching that number. But I want to be there for her; I want to see her graduate, get married, and I want to meet my grandkids someday.
Why do I write? Because I can’t articulate all this out loud, never been able to. Nothing I write will hit you harder than life. Can I promise to be there for my little girl when she’s older? I hope so. What I can do is show up every day and make sure she knows that her Dad will always be there for her. Sure, I write for me, but I write this for her now, too.
Callahan Herrig 