November 9th, 1998 is the dividing line, everything before has since been categorized as "before my father died." This is going to be harder than I thought; one sentence and I'm crying. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed. 13 years without him; all 3 of the boys Bar Mitzvahs, 2 high school graduations, one college graduation and every happy and sad moment in between, all without Papa Burt, all without my Daddy. Seems strange to use that word, Daddy, I don't think I have referred to him that way since he's been gone (except alone, when I whisper my thoughts to him). I was 36 years old when he died and spent every last second until then as "Daddy's little girl," certainly helps when you have two brothers. After that day, it’s always my Dad or my Father; never thought about how much I miss just saying Daddy. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed.
It was a Monday; Believe it or not, I start most Mondays thinking about that. Mostly because it was just a regular day, like all the Mondays before it, and yet by 3 pm the world as I knew it ceased to exist. I woke up with a healthy, 61-year-old father that lived a mile away and went to bed that night without one. He went to work, just a regular Monday, went to court (lawyer, not criminal), came back to the office, had a heart attack and died, just like that. No lingering illness, no long good-byes, no hospital visits, no passing go, no second chances, no joke; he was just gone in an instant. I remember almost every moment of November 9th, 1998; snippets play out in slow motion far too often even after 13 years. Certain parts I can't piece together no matter how hard I try. I know I was driving Hebrew school carpool and went to my then sister-in-laws house to pick up my nephews. I was standing in her driveway when she told me that he had a heart attack but no other details; his office had called my brother who worked nearby. I remember slumping down on the asphalt and that she took my car to drop the kids at temple. I have no idea how I got back home, only 3 doors away so I suppose I walked. I sat on my front step and looked at the bright blue sky, much the same as the one I am looking at today, and my heart already knew what I hadn't yet been told, he was gone. I felt it deep inside my soul; a part of me was already missing. My mom didn't know anything yet and unfortunately I was the one who had to somehow find the words to tell her. I don't know how I found her, did she have a cell phone then? Must have, because I got her on the phone and asked her to come to my house because I needed help with the kids. She knew something was wrong, heard it in my voice, but didn't press me for details. As soon as I hung up, I knew I didn't have the strength to do this alone and called old friends of my parents, the two people who I knew could get both of us through this. They arrived within minutes, not sure if it was before or after my mom, that whole part is a giant blur. I have no recollection of the words I used to tell her that her husband of 40 years was gone; at some point before that my brother called to confirm what I already knew. More fuzzy memories of a trip to the hospital to say goodbye, wish I hadn't done that part, but I couldn't let my mom do it alone. Luckily my brain has mostly eliminated that visual and replaced it with the one I see every time I think of him, sparkling blue eyes and a giant smile. Jeffrey must have met me at the hospital and I know I spoke to RW within minutes of when I found out. The rest of the night is also spotty, telling the kids, my younger brother arriving (his own wedding, just 6 days away, is suddenly not what this week was about). Friends and family in and out all night, I can’t let my mother out of my sight, afraid she will slip away from the sadness. We spent that night together in my bed, not a lot of sleeping or talking, just two broken people trying to make sense of the last 12 hours and how we would face all the hours ahead without him.
It’s not necessary to go into detail about the days immediately following, obviously a funeral (Suddenly I can’t remember if I spoke, I know my mother wrote something and had a friend read it when she could not). There were days of Shiva, hundreds and hundreds of people sharing their stories of my father. The laughter made me angry but the stories made me happy, if that makes any sense. Every morning I woke up and tried to imagine that it was all a very bad nightmare and if I called him at the office he would answer. For a while, I called just to hear his voice in the message, and then at some point the message and the extension were gone. Weeks and months went by and I felt like I would never be happy again. I cried in the car, I cried at night in the dark, I cried in the shower; I tried not to cry when I spoke to my mother. There is a strange phenomenon that happens when you lose a parent, and I’ve discussed this with many friends who have unfortunately shared my experience, in some ways you lose the other parent too. As the only daughter, we switched roles for a long while as I “mothered” her. My mom is a remarkable woman who faced every day since with her head up, refusing to let most of the world see her grief. The bulk of it was saved for me, at the end of the day in long, sad phone calls. In June of 2010, she married another wonderful man from Yale who gives her all the love and joy and happiness that she deserves. On that beautiful day, I finally stopped worrying about her and we returned to mother and daughter, the way it’s supposed to be.
I became a different person that day 13 years ago, a little broken but a little stronger. I take less for granted and most things less seriously. Every happy moment is a little bittersweet without him, but I share the details when I quietly talk to him when I’m alone. Today I went to the cemetery, actually wrote part of this sitting in my car, still hard to see his name on that stone. I used to visit more often; it was my hiding spot when I needed a place to think things through (still running to daddy for help I guess), but I’ve gone less and less in the last few years. I’m hoping its because I don’t need to run away as much or maybe my heart knows he’s with me all the time if I need him. I take comfort in the fact that he never suffered, and my memories will always be of my handsome young father. I’m glad that all of my boys have real memories of their Papa Burt; he loved being a grandfather most of all. We tell stories all the time, and as they grow from boys to men I see pieces of him in what they do and who they are.
I was blessed to have lived most of my life within minutes of his front door. I see his face staring back at me in the mirror every day, a more feminine version I hope and without the blue eyes, but I am my father’s daughter. I have missed him every hour of every day for the last 13 years. The pain never goes away, it just gets a little bit duller with the passing of time. He was the smartest man I ever knew; he made me laugh and occasionally he made me angry, but most of all, I never doubted, not even for a second, how much he loved me. In the end, even at 49 years old, I am just a little girl who misses her Daddy. Deep Breath, Tissue, Proceed ...
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