Tonight I bought a flight home to see my dad for the last time. He’s dying. His spirit is strong but his body is giving in. My father was first diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2003 just a few weeks before I was set to graduate from college.
I remember the morning he called to tell me he had cancer. He was 55 years old. I was devastated and shaken and immediately assumed the worst. He’s going to die. But he didn’t. He sought treatment and had surgery and got radiation. Over the years he took pills and then more radiation and then more pills.
The cancer came back in full force a few months after Poppy died. I was waiting to board a flight to Winnipeg, Manitoba, when I connected with my dad over the phone. He let me know the cancer was back. I thought, “this is too much. I can’t handle all this grief.” But I did. Sitting in the airport terminal I asked him if I could write a blog post about his cancer returning. He asked me not to. Rather than discuss his illness, I shone a spotlight on his brilliance and creativity by sharing the story of the urn he built Poppy. You can read that post here.
The ticket I bought tonight is non-stop to Atlanta. Moxie will be my 25 pound lap companion. We will connect with my sister and brother at the airport and together drive 4 hours south to the town we grew up in. We will make precious memories there with my mom and dad.
Sitting here in on my sofa, I write about these future moments and imagine the love that will flow between the 6 of us as we commune together. I‘m so glad Moxie gets to come along — she is a healer. She and my father have a kinship that transcends this lifetime.
I imagine that Moxie’s purity and innocence will help usher him to the next world. She is fresh and still connected to Source. Her chakras are open. May her calm essence guide my father on.
I feel a deep peace as I type these thoughts. My experience of grief has been so extraordinary. Poppy gifted me the opportunity to mourn, to feel sorrow, to be with all that pain. She also gave me the choice to transform, to find joy, to have dreams and to make them come true. I want more time with you Daddy. I’m not ready for you to go, but I’m not afraid to say goodbye either.
Daddy, you know how much I love you. I tell you nearly every day. Daddy, did you ever know that one of my favorite things about you is that you let yourself cry? We are going to be crying together soon — tears of love and gratitude and longing for what is and for what cannot be. But Daddy, there is nothing left unsaid. There is nothing to be forgiven, because all that remains is love. I can’t wait to see you in a few days. Hang in there for us. We will be together once more and in spirit for the rest of time.