I turned.
The world around me faded, and there he sat, smiling.
"Oh, Daddy." I hurried to him, wrapped my arms around him, and sobbed. I could hardly breathe.
To feel my dad again was extraordinary.
No other words were exchanged, and we didn't need any.
I didn't let go for the longest time.
He looked healthy, as always, when he comes to me in dreams.
Dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a t-shirt, full head of perfectly combed brown hair, and that smile, god, how I miss that smile.
Typically, Dad wears a hat, but during this visit, he did not.
When it was time for him to go, I woke up tangled in the sheet and comforter, my face wet from tears.
"Thank you, Daddy. You knew I needed that. I think you needed it, too."
I cried in my pillow; I wasn’t sad but grateful. Every encounter is beautiful and unique.
My dad loved hugs.
He'd comment, "I needed an Andrea hug today."
When we lived far away, he'd say, "I can't wait for those hugs."
Even when he was in tremendous discomfort, and hugs were painful, he still wanted them. He'd moan and wince but never refused them.
That was Dad.
The evolution of grief is an interesting one.
Grief didn't start 15 months ago; it began the moment he was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Anticipatory grief.
I'd learned about it in my death doula classes.
In my mind, I'd create scenarios of Dad dying.
What it would be like.
What life would look like without him here?
What would the obituary look like? What would his eulogy look like?
Would we stay or would we move?
I didn't know how I would feel after his death.
Places we visited.
Memories of him peppered throughout.
Would we tell Mom to sell the condo and have her move with us?
Then, the conversation with Dad at his chemo appointment occurred.
I observed while they readied him for his treatment.
Masks were applied while she cleaned his port; Dad watched me as I watched his nurse. I'd seen her do it before, but I always watched.
Beeps and hums surrounded us.
The winter morning sun streamed through the window onto Dad's right side, highlighting everything his nurse was doing. It was an intricate and fascinating process.
She finished, brought Dad his favorite pop and cookies, and left us.
We settled in for the 3-hour infusion.
Our conversations during these times ranged from dark humor to childhood stories to venting to uncomfortable truths.
That day was the latter.
Dad took a deep breath. "Do you guys want to stay here?"
I knew what he was asking; it was written all over his face.
"I don't know." Emotions swept through me. Tears burned my eyes. "I don't know if I can stay here without you." I covered my mouth to silence my cries.
Dad wiped his eyes.
The coffee I drank earlier crept up my throat.
Silence stretched between us as we regained composure.
"It's a lot to ask, but I hope you guys stay. This is home."
I dabbed my nose with a tissue. "I don't know what it will be."
Then per usual, Dad farted, blamed the barking spider, and we laughed until our stomachs hurt.
When we moved back to Sioux Falls after my dad's cancer diagnosis, we hadn't lived here for nearly 20 years. We visited every handful of years. Usually, Mom and Dad visited us wherever we were living. This did not sit well with my grandparents, but sometimes we weren't financially secure enough to purchase plane tickets, or Phil couldn't take time off from work.
Guilt remains heavy for the times I should have been here. Though my parents told me they understood the reasons, that never released the regret.
I'm working on it in therapy.
As the months carried on, the thought of leaving vanished. When we visited my grandma, seeing Dad in that space, the stories shared between him, my aunt, and grandma. He grew up in that house. He is an integral part of the air there.
The walls.
The photos.
His sister and mother.
Dad and I reminisced about when I met Phil and Logan's birth, the park we visited as a family, the places we lived throughout the city, where Mom and Dad went on dates, and where they got married.
Picnics.
Deck parties.
Old friends.
There's history in every corner.
Phil never pressured me to decide; he left it up to me.
I made the decision and told Dad.
"We're buying a house."
The corners of his mouth lifted, and tears filled his eyes; he quickly wiped them away. "Well, that's great. Where are you looking?"
After that, his spirit calmed; I could feel it.
He was determined to stay alive until we officially moved in.
I stayed with him all day on July 6 while Phil, his mom, and the movers transported all our belongings to a house only 7 minutes away, which also pleased my dad. He had strong opinions about location. It had to be the west side.
Dad was transitioning and didn't speak much. But when he did, he wanted an update on the move. I'd show him pictures and videos.
Late afternoon, Phil came to pick me up.
I leaned down and kissed Dad on the head. "We are home. I love you, Daddy," I whispered in his ear.
He smiled. "I love you." His voice was weak.
It was the last time I heard his voice.
Nearly 15 hours later, Dad died.
He knew we were here to stay, and he could go.
Two factors played into his stubbornness: his mom's birthday (July 5) and our move-in day.
Is this home without him?
Absolutely.
Because Dad is here.
I couldn't imagine ever leaving, nor do we want to.
We have moved 24 times, and we are over it.
This is where I fell in love with Phil.
This is where our son was born.
This is where Mom is.
This is where our community is.
This is where Dad lived and where he died.
This is home.