Emailing Dad.

Sometimes I like to torture myself and go through old emails from my Dad just to feel like we’re talking again. It’s actually usually something I do when I’m in a good place with my grief, believe it or not. It’s usually a joyful thing, where I’m just missing him and can look back on memories with smiles instead of sadness.

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I found this one last week and it cracked me up. My Dad took us with some other family on a cross-country camping trip for a whole month the summer I turned 14. Our first stop was the Corn Palace which – to a 14-year old (and probably to most people) – IS THE MOST BORING PLACE IN THE WORLD. And I remember thinking, Great. This is what we have to look forward to for an entire month? Of course the trip went uphill from there, most places were amazing, but it’s been a long time joke about the boringness of the Corn Palace in our family.

So that email made me smile. I actually remember hearing the story and remember needing to tell Dad about it. I wouldn’t have remembered that without the email because it wasn’t anything exciting. But it was a nice treat.

My point? Email your kids sometimes. He and I didn’t email much, most of the emails look like this one, one of us sending something random or a quick update to the other. I wish we had written more. But they’re still a nice treat to have when I’m missing him.

Fresh Grief, All Over Again.

7 years ago today I was sitting at my desk at work when I got the call I had been expecting for weeks. Weirdly, though, it was unexpected. My brother had visited my Dad the night before and Dad had been weirdly lucid and healthy and he even considered that maybe he wasn’t actually dying, that maybe they had gotten the diagnosis wrong. And while we both new that one of the common stages of dying is a weird final rally, sometimes hours before death, we both found ourselves considering the possibility, “Wait. What if he’s not really dying?”

So, in some strange way, some part of me was surprised by the call.

“What? My Dad who is in hospice while his failed kidneys cause his ultimate death…actually died? Huh?”

I’m certain the nurse was perplexed by my shock.

The stress of trying to sell our house last year, and now again, has been some sort of weird grief trigger the last 12 months. I remember feeling like I was really missing him on the anniversary of his death last year, more so than usual, and basically that feeling never left. I think it was the combination of turning 40 and the stress of trying to sell our house on top of a job change last year but the last 12 months have truly felt like the first 12 months all over again.

Actually, more accurately, this last 12 months have felt like the first WEEK all over again. I’ve been crying spontaneously a lot more, I’ve been talking to him out loud in my car like he just died yesterday. I’ve been pulling out things that remind me of Dad and holding them tight, letting the waves of memories wash over me like a depressing cleansing shower.

Oh! And I’ve been looking for a therapist! Although, it may be hard to understand why I would need one.

AHHHH…sarcasm…an instinct stronger than grief.

Let me just say that Flash didn’t help this week (no spoilers!) because Barry time-traveled and got to see people who had died AND DUDE, THAT IS NOT FAIR. I WANT TO SEE MY DAD AGAIN. WHERE IS MY SPEEDSTER?

(Don’t worry…Irrational anger and jealousy towards fictional superheroes is going on my “List of things I should tell my therapist.”)

When I quick smoking back in 2003 I remember reading a pamphlet (remember those?) that said to do ANYTHING you had to do for the first three days. Eat, sleep, cry…whatever you needed to get through those first three days. Don’t worry about being healthy or active or productive, just get the toughest part of the physical addiction beat and THEN get back to trying to live.

That’s what I feel like March has been this year. I’ve just been struggling the whole month to keep my head above water. March is always terrible but this year it was incredibly hard and I just have to get through today and then maybe tomorrow I’ll finally feel better. Today, the anniversary of his death, is the last bad day and then I really need to try to clean myself off and rejoin the living again.

I just have to get through one more day. Then I can wash March and the terrible memories that always come with it, away. At least for the next 11 months.


On “Hamilton,” Grief, and Forgiveness.

I’ve already told you how much I adore Hamilton. It is still played every day around here and I’ve gotten the kids hooked on it. Nikki won a bet with her teacher at school based on her new knowledge of the founding father and got to call her teacher Alexander Hamilton all day as a prize. I’ve used my interest in this musical to drive investigations into lives of other characters like Eliza Hamilton (who is my favorite, by far) and Theodosia Burr and her relationship with her Father (which oddly, reminds me a lot of my own).

But the part that I’d like to talk about today is the one song that – no matter how many times I listen – makes me sob. I mean, SOB. And it’s because it’s such a perfect commentary on grief and forgiveness. And I need you to remember something: I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS SHOW. And also? I’m not a musical theater expert. I’m just a Mom in Alabama who has never seen a Broadway show. I’ve seen some amazing high school productions and some decent traveling productions, but my knowledge of musical theater is minimal and I’ve NEVER seen this one at all. This is how powerful the song is, I have the pictures of the actors in my head, I’ve seen clips of their performances of another song from the Grammy’s so I know the costumes and the general stage setup. I can imagine this song playing out but I’ve never seen it. I feel all of the emotion I describe JUST from listening to it and to me – that is the power of this show. You don’t have to see it. I want to with all of my heart, but my heart has already seen it because it’s written and performed so well on the cast album.

Let me set the stage. Eliza and Hamilton were probably not on speaking terms as he had publicly humiliated her with an affair. The song where she expresses her grief over that is just 3 songs prior in Burn, so you are still, very much feeling her broken heart over that tragic scandal. Then, in Stay Alive (Reprise) you listen to her and Hamilton at the bedside of her eldest son Phillip as he dies post-dual. That song will rip out your soul and I encourage you to listen to it by clicking the “play” button on the top hand of this page. It will rip out your heart because you can hear the pain in Eliza as she sings Phillip to his death reciting the scales they use to play on the piano when he was a child.

But the NEXT song – It’s Quiet Uptown – is the one I want to talk about. You can listen to it on the genius page here if you’d like. So, they’re still in the post-infidelity heartbreak and they’ve now just lost their son. Eliza’s sister Angelica – a close friend Hamilton’s as well – opens the song with this verse:

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down

And that broken rhyme after “unimaginable” – your brain fills in the rhyme with “pain.” This pause after “unimaginable” repeats through this whole song and destroys my heart. That unspoken pain – of the heart from the recent infidelity and the new and much deeper pain of the loss of their child – that pain is never spoken of in the entire song. That word “unimaginable” is hanging at the end of every line in song. Because some pain…some grief…some heartache…it just can’t be described and my heart breaks with that line and I spend the rest of the song sobbing.

But it gets worse.

So the family moves uptown and the song first walks us through Hamilton’s grief, how he spends time alone is garden and walking alone in the city and everyone pities him. He even talks out loud to his dead son at one point, telling him he’d like it where they’re living now, and if I had a dollar for every time I talked out loud to my Dad I’d be rich.

Then we move on to he and Eliza grieving together. But remember – she has removed herself from his narrative using these lines from Burn

I’m erasing myself from the narrative
Let future historians wonder how Eliza
Reacted when you broke her heart
You have torn it all apart

Her heart was already frozen where he was concerned but now, now they are grieving together in a way only they can each understand. No matter how much she might still hate him, imagine her broken heart over losing her son and knowing the only person who knows that pain is this man who broke her heart.

So…we now see them grieving together and he sings to her…

Look at where we are
Look at where we started
I know I don’t deserve you, Eliza
But hear me out. That would be enough

If I could spare his life
If I could trade his life for mine
He’d be standing here right now
And you would smile, and that would be enough
I don’t pretend to know
The challenges we’re facing
I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost
And you need time
But I’m not afraid
I know who I married
Just let me stay here by your side
That would be enough

He’s just basically saying he’s sorry but that he needs her and if he can just grieve next to her, that would be enough. I can’t imagine how hard that would be because my brother and I grieve together constantly over my Dad and I don’t know what I would do without having him and knowing he’s feeling my same pain. Eliza and Hamilton need each other to get through this but there’s so much pain already there.

So then we see them together a little bit. The ensemble narrates that he’s now talking to her as they walk around uptown (as opposed to earlier when he was talking to himself) and you imagine her there, listening politely, but not talking back.

He is trying to do the unimaginable
See them walking in the park, long after dark
Taking in the sights of the city

Here I like to think that the unimaginable thing he’s trying to do is earn her forgiveness. He needs it to allow himself to grieve. He needs to grieve with her. And then Angelica harkens back to the lines that she opened the song with here but now we’re talking about grace of forgiveness instead of the pain of grief.

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable
They are standing in the garden
Alexander by Eliza’s side
She takes his hand

That moment…she takes his hand. In that moment, they begin grieving together. She says the only line she says in the whole song, and it’s the same line he sang to his dead son earlier:

It’s quiet uptown

The ensemble sings

Forgiveness. Can you imagine?
Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

And then they begin really healing together. Healing over the heartbreak of his infidelity and over the pain of losing a child. I dug into Eliza’s history and she really was a champion for him for the 50 years she outlived him. She fought to have his letters published and she maintained a respected standing in society and with members of the government. She opened an orphanage – as her husband had been an orphan – and she raised their giant family without him, still managing to keep them all educated and fed. She was an amazing woman and knowing that makes this song even more powerful. She truly did forgive him but more importantly – she loved him. And she carried on his story and his legacy even after his death.

THIS SONG, y’all. I hope you listened to it. This is the best page to listen to it on because you can read who is singing as you listen so it helps a little with understand what might be happening on stage. Basically the entire second act is just one sob fest after another with a few rap battles over legislation thrown in.

Some day I’ll see the show on stage. Some day. And I’ll sob like I have never sobbed in my life, I’m certain.

Dear Dad,

I have this wide assortment of things I wanted to write about this morning on my blog. The blog you used to read every day which is probably one of the things that motivated me every morning to write. I was wanting to write about my hydration pack, or maybe about how much I hate this weird trend of shaming entertainment choices in an attempt to encourage compassion. I also considered writing about the several incidental-but-embarrassing errors I made yesterday. You know, the kind that would normally keep me from sleeping as I replay them over and over and over again? They didn’t last night because I took melatonin to try to turn off the voices. BUT STILL. So many embarrassing errors.

But then I sat down and just thought, Shit…I really miss my Dad.

And I started crying, which I know you would HATE and it would probably make you yell at me, “Dammit, Kim. I didn’t want my death to be a big deal!”

But that’s the thing about losing someone you love, someone who was such a big part of your life, of your heart, of your soul…it’s always going to be a big deal.

When I was overwhelmed with life, you always were quick with a compliment. “I don’t see how you do it.” You said that to me all the time. You were just as in awe of my brother when we would discuss what he was up to. You couldn’t understand how I juggled so many balls and you didn’t every understand how he did so well in a career that you and I would have failed at miserably. You were just never EVER one to hold back in telling us that you were amazed by us and since we put you on such a tall pedestal…those words were priceless.

Maybe this is just one of those days where I need someone to tell me I’m amazing.


That’s not it, because I actually have made a point since you died – consciously or not – to surround myself with positive influences and positive people. Dad? You would love my friends SO MUCH. I wish you could meet them all. Some days when we’re riding our bikes or running through the woods I think, “I might could have talked Dad into moving here after meeting these people.” So it’s not that I need someone to tell me I’m amazing, my friends feed me that energy just as I feed it to them.

I need you to tell me I’m amazing.

I actually cry over missing you more than I like to admit. The kids see it a lot. Sometimes they even know the trigger, like when I was dusting Nikki’s shelf the other day and saw your silly trigonometry book that she just loved so much. Or when I’m talking about how much I wish you were alive to enjoy Sunday Family Dinners. I think maybe I’ve been crying even more over missing you lately, maybe just because life is overwhelming right now and I’m fragile.

Donnie’s Ironman is in two weeks and I so wish you could be there with us to cheer him on. You loved Chattanooga so much and you would have carried the backpack full of water and snacks for me so that my back wouldn’t hurt for the next solid month.

Except, of course, that the blood cancer that killed you so seemingly suddenly, caused microfractures over your entire skeleton and one of the things we talked about regarding your decision to not consider cancer treatment was your sadness over not being able to carry your backpack. The pain was too much.

But in my imaginary world where you’re with us in Chattanooga, you’re obviously cancer-free.

That would be really shitty of me to imagine a world where you were back with us, but still riddled with cancer.

The kids are growing so much, E is about to be old enough to drink, and I’m still me…overwhelmed by my personal life and the life around me. I’m very passionate about a lot of issues both locally and globally – I’m not sure that side of me had really blossomed yet before you died. And lately it just seems like every day there is something upsetting me. The county clerk in Kentucky who still won’t issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples (YEAH! It’s legal nationwide now! You would be so impressed) and today there’s news that our state decided to continue giving tax breaks to corporations and to balance the budget on the backs of our education system because no one wants to raise taxes in any way in this state.

Maybe that’s why I started thinking of you this morning, because you were the most fiscally liberal person I knew. I remember once talking and how you wished there was a program where poor people could get cheap-but-stable modes of transportation. Mainly because the public transportation system in Knoxville was so abysmal so people without means had difficulty finding jobs. You said, “I’d pay more taxes for that, no problem.” You even said that if you thought it would be managed well you’d give all your money in taxes. “I really just need a place to live, my bicycle, and a library card to survive.” I joked with you that you should find a nice commune to join.

So maybe that’s what’s got me missing you this morning. My overwhelming sadness over the state of our state and knowing that you were shockingly (being a kind of stoic engineer) my hippie friend that I could talk civil economics with.

Or maybe it’s Fall. Fall has always been a weird time of year for me. I had a bad Autumn in 1999 and it still leaves me with this residual sadness and anxiety when the temperatures drop. And whenever I’m sad or anxious I miss my grounding phone calls to you more. It’s been 6.5 years and I still miss calling you so bad that I’m sobbing at 4:45am on a Tuesday morning.

I think I need to build a fake day today, Dad. I think I’ll stay off social media for the day and just curate my world – if possible – so that I’m only seeing joy. I think I’ll put blinders on today. I know that’s not a very grown-up thing to do, but I remember doing it after Sandy Hook too – just stepping away from the world delivering me news that I was too fragile to cope with. I guess that without you to ground me, some days I just need to self-preserve. Today is MOST DEFINITELY one of those days.

I guess though, I should maybe also spend the day being positive so that my light can dilute the darkness that I feel like is overwhelming me this morning. Maybe I should shut out the world for the day, just so I can be free to shine my light.

I just miss you so much, Dad. You were always the unique light I needed on my darkest days. The people I love all light my world in their own way, but your light is still missing and some days I can’t see the other light because the darkness left by your death is just too engulfing.

Jeezus. That’s not a very positive way to end this letter to you, is it? Especially considering no part of me believes in a conscious life after death so I’m very knowingly just writing this for myself. Hell, if I honestly believed part of you could see this I would not write it because it would TOTALLY PISS YOU OFF. Nope, this is a letter to myself disguised as a letter to you. So, I should probably try to end it on a higher note.

I’ve been telling the kids your jokes lately. How, if I asked you to make me a sandwich you would hold out an imaginary wand and say, “Poof! You’re a sandwich!” Or how if I asked you to turn off the light you would turn it off, then turn it back on again and leave the room. “You didn’t ask me to leave it off.” Nikki even did that EXACT thing to me last night. I think you would like that, knowing that I have taught my kids how to torture me in the SAME WAY you did when I was a teenager.

Love you, Dad.


Holding On To Grief

I had to get up early for a work related task and as I was mulling over my blog post for the day I thought, Hmmm…maybe I’ll tell everyone about my spicy okra and beans from last night!

If I believed in any sort of life after death I would tell you that my Dad would see that thought and say, “Thank goodness. She’s finally going to let March 31st pass without some sappy entry about how much she misses me.” And while I don’t believe he’s watching over me in any way, it was a little jarring to momentarily forget that today was the day – six years ago – that he left me forever. It was especially shocking to have forgetten because Dad has been on my mind so much lately. Much more so than usual, as I’ve been feeling fresh waves of guilt the last month that almost feel like I said goodbye only yesterday. This has been a surprise, that the depth of the sadness can still feel so vast even six years away. But it has lately – really since the new year – it’s felt vivid and new and painfully raw. His new grandson, Donnie’s Ironman, E’s college experience, my Grand Slam, Wes’s basketball and Nikki’s vocabulary and dialog development…there are so many things over the last six months that have just made me scream to the clouds time and time again: WHY IS HE NOT STILL HERE TO EXPERIENCE THIS?

The sadness has tainted just about every breath I’ve taken these last few months and I’ll be honest – part of me doesn’t want to shake it off. Part of me has felt a renewed closeness to him with this fresh wave of grief, and I wonder if I’m holding onto it as a way to hold on to him. I know that over the last six years I’ve felt that before – a need to hold on to the grief when it hits. So part of me kinda got mad at myself this morning: Zoot! Okra? How could you be thinking about OKRA on the anniversary of your Dad’s death? I was mad I had momentarily stuck my head out of this fog of sadness and forgotten about how much I missed him.


But I know that’s silly. If there’s anything this wave of pain has taught me is that no amount of time will fade the grief forever. While part of me fears that letting the sadness pass means that a part of him passes again, I know that is not how it works. I know that time does not build an insurmountable wall protecting me from sadness forever – it only builds small barrier that keeps it at bay so I can live my life. But the grief – it’s always there and letting go now doesn’t not mean I’m saying goodbye again.

I turn 40 in July, but in my heart I’ll always be a Daddy’s girl.

I miss you so much, Dad. Tears trickle down my face as I try to find new pictures of you that I’ve not shown before, because I didn’t know during any of these moments that you’d be gone so soon. I would give anything to have these moments back again.