Eleven Years
It's hard for me to believe that it's been over a decade since my Dad died of cancer. Grief is such a strange emotion ... it never goes away, just sits in the background on pause. Grief finds you when thoughts align. Time becomes wavering: one day the passing feels like yesterday, and the emotions swell up like the tide. The years go by and life somehow carries on without that person.
I think of my Dad often and especially when certain things happen: an achievement at work; one of my babies' milestones or silly stories I wish I could share with him. A bottle of wine or dinner dish I know he'd love. A gorgeous rainbow after days of rain; a Gloria Estefan or Huey Lewis and The News song on the radio. A hilarious conversation with my sisters. I will have the thought to text or call my Dad ... and then remember I can't.
For me, there's that sharp grief that'll make me randomly cry driving to work. Then there's the (as Charlie Brown called it) good grief, when something funny or awesome happens and I think "Dad would LOVE this!" It's a balance, and sometimes a laugh can turn into a cry or vice versa. I can still hear my dad's laugh eleven years later. One thing I know for certain is--Dave loved his three girls. He was an unwavering support when life got messy and our cheerleader when life got awesome. I know he would be immensely proud and thrilled at where the three of us landed these last eleven years.
The Outdoor Bug
My Dad (aka Dave, aka Pops) was born and raised in Tacoma, Washington. He went to Dartmouth College in New Hampshire and got his MBA there years later. He and my mom settled north of Boston, Mass., where he worked as a marketing executive. He balanced his city job with weekend warrior pursuits, skiing in winter and hiking, kayaking and cycling the rest of the year. As kids we were always playing outside. He used to tell me stories of living in the Pacific Northwest, fishing and hiking Mount Rainier with my grandfather. While he was not religious, Dad was very spiritual; his church was the woods. That's where he'd recharge and feel at peace.
Cabin in the Woods
When I was in college, my dad was working in public affairs and marketing at a hospital. He was still a weekend warrior, spending his free time flyfishing, skiiing, hiking and kayaking. He had a deep love of the outdoors and conservation. He was funny, silly, charismatic and sensitive. He gave me my passion for creative writing; a love of the outdoors and wanderlust; my ambiverted personality; my love of early mornings and coffee.
At just five years old I would drink coffee with him--mine was a splash of coffee and mostly milk, eventually swapping that ratio by the time I was six--me watching "He-Man" while Dad was getting ready. Coffee time was something we shared for years to come. Early mornings were when we were our most creative, and--when we lived on opposite sides of the country or states apart--when we'd email each other to check in. We'd share fish photos and brag about what we caught or what outdoor adventure we took. We shared the same taste in music and bonded over Brandi Carlile, Patty Griffin, Madeleine Peyroux, the Rolling Stones and Genesis.
Dad always wanted to live in the woods. After a divorce, he found a beautiful log cabin on 60 acres in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and made it happen. I referred to it as his "bachelor cabin;" it had a cozy fireplace, knotty pine walls, cathedral ceilings, a front porch with mountain views, and some pretty active neighbors in the shape of moose, black bears, birds and bullfrogs. Barely anything in the fridge.
It was heaven.
After graduating college and applying for jobs I was (very!!) unqualified for, my Dad suggested I apply for an internship to get my feet wet. I accepted an unpaid editorial internship at Dartmouth Medicine magazine, where I learned about publishing and science writing on a small team of brilliant writers. Did I mention it was unpaid?
With nowhere to stay and no money for rent, Dad let me live in his cabin rent-free. I spent a life-changing five months as a country bumpkin, writing in solitude and seeing more wild animals than people on a daily basis. The neighbors included a woodpecker who woke up WAY too early; a chickadee who sat with me on the porch while I drank my morning coffee; a moose who walked laps around the outside of the house late at night, scaring me to death; a resident bear; wild turkeys and more. We coexisted wonderfully.
This charming log cabin was quaint and cozy but not without flaws. The biggest issue? Doors didn't lock. The front door didn't have a deadbolt, just a knoblock and hook and eye latch. The back door didn't close too well. I woke up freezing one morning and walked downstairs to discover it had snowed the night before--as evidenced by the snow drift in the KITCHEN. I used a 10 pound rock to secure the back door most nights and did not incur any further kitchen snowstorms.
It took 45 minutes to drive to work along gorgeous, winding New England back roads. I'd listen to music as I coasted along in nonexistent traffic, keeping an eye out for moose and deer. At night I'd pour a glass of wine, eat canned soup and write by the fireplace. Outside of becoming a mom, this was one of the best times of my life. Dad would come stay with me on the weekends and we'd watch movies, drink wine, cook and laugh. I'm so glad I got that time with him.
Impulse Cabin
Years later, Dad sold the cabin (tear!) and moved closer to town. He started flyfishing more often and driving up to Rangeley, Maine on weekend trips with his wife. They would rent a cabin and fish the Kennebago River. On one trip, they drove by a three-season cabin for sale and bought it on a whim. Nestled on a hill above the Kennebago, this cozy cabin was the ultimate writing and fishing retreat. No TVs, no WiFi, no distractions. Perfection.
I only made it up to Dad's cabin once, on Halloween weekend. I immediately fell in love with the place. It was instantly cozy. We got a fire going while Dad made dinner. I popped on my fisheye lens and documented the cabin, hanging over the loft rafters to capture the sitting room below. I could see why my Dad made this impulse buy ... this place was special.
The previous owner was a lifelong flyfisherman. His annual fishing licenses were posted on the walls of a shed located down by the riverbank, a testament to his passion and souvenirs of seasons past. He'd left behind some of his old gear and fishing accessories which my Dad kept on display. You could say the decor was “1960s Fisherman”: encyclopedic fishing fly illustration posters and Audubon Society prints. A rack on the wall with well-used fishing hats.
When we arrived at the cabin, there was a foot of snow already on the ground. Dad determined this would be the last visit before winter--time to lock it up and prep it for a frigid, harsh Maine winter. We ran around emptying faucets, cleaning up and readying the property for a quiet winter.
Father-Daughter Fishing Trip
For my thirtieth birthday, I wanted to do something different. I told my Dad I was thinking of driving up to the Olympic Peninsula for my birthday weekend, rent a cabin and do a guided trip down the Bogachiel or Hoh River. My Dad asked if I wanted company and offered to fly out. I was pumped! We stayed at the same cabin I usually rent on the Bogachiel River and enjoyed carrot cake, red wine, mac and cheese and popcorn. I hired one of my favorite flyfishing guides, Larry Ford, and Dad and I met him at 5 a.m. for breakfast at the diner in town before hopping in his truck and heading for the river.
Spoiler alert: It was cold, foggy, windy, and amazing. No fish were caught, but Dad took his very first selfie on his flip phone and we had the best time. After our float, we visited a mutually favorite beach, Rialto, and wandered around collecting rocks that had washed ashore. This one one of my absolute favorite trips I have ever taken. I immediately feel his presence when I visit this beach.
Change in plans
Dad had mentioned he'd been experiencing reflux right before the trip and was going to get it checked out. A couple weeks later, his doctor found a tumor at the base of his esophagus. "Stage 3, maybe stage 4 esophageal cancer" he told me over the phone. He sounded confident that everything was going to be OK--his doctors were on it. He was receiving radiation treatment at a top rated hospital and would have a significant surgery at a New York hospital. He had a plan. My sisters and I got regular updates and Dad kept making future plans--we'd all travel with him to Croatia the following summer and do an ancestry tour, meeting the distant cousins my Dad had recently discovered.
I saw my Dad a few times after our trip. He flew out West to visit his mom and sister and I met up with them for a long weekend. He joined me and my sister for Thanksgiving, looking markedly fragile. The three of us had an awesome time, wine tasting with my girlfriends, watching movies and decorating my Christmas tree. He had a rough flight back and I felt terrible he'd made the trip, but grateful for the time together. I flew home for Christmas and he was even more fragile, his voice small and his body weak. The cancer had metastasized to his lungs and brain. He entered hospice care soon after, choosing to be kept comfortable at home.
I was able to hop on a redeye flight and make it back home to be with him before he died. My sisters, aunt, future husband and stepmother kept vigil with him, taking turns sharing stories and holding his hand.
Seven months after he was diagnosed, my Dad lost his battle with cancer. He was 62 years old.
The morning he died was a frigid, bluebird day in January. The snow on the ground was glistening like diamonds. I saw a cardinal sitting on a tree out the window. In some traditions, a red cardinal sighting is a sign from a deceased loved one, a way for people who have died to connect with those still living. It meant a lot to see one that day.
What I've Learned
My Dad did not get to retire ... but he knew how to live life. Unlike so many of us, he did not push plans off to age 65 when he'd have 'more time.' He took the trips, bought the cabins in the woods, visited family, fished and skied and kayaked and played. We can plan all we want for retirement but we might not get the privilege of getting there. Living the life you want now is the goal.
Good Grief
Eleven years later, I have more "good grief" moments than heavy ones. I think in part it's because I know my Dad would be so proud of where I am in my life. The moments I used to be sad he'd missed have become moments I'm happy--because he would be happy for me.
I smile when I hear a song he'd like, or enjoy a quiet cup of coffee to myself at 5 a.m. When I go for a long walk in the snow in the woods behind my farmhouse in New Hampshire, I smile because he'd be happy I made it back home.