The Wedding
Originally published on “Raising Red” blog, October 23, 2018
The Wedding
Last Friday, Oct. 19, was my sister’s 5th wedding anniversary and the marking of the last time we were all with my father. And today, October 23rd, the anniversary of the last time I saw him when he returned to our home for a night before beginning the 3000 mile car trip back to Arizona by way of New Jersey to visit my brother and his family, and then on to DC, Nashville and Graceland for the end of what we now refer to as his Farewell Tour.
I have been avoiding my 30 piece project at the halfway point, I think because this marks the hardest piece of writing of this series to date.
“A picture says a thousand words”; cliché but true. I almost don’t need to write about what I think my father’s experience was of that day, or about my own or my family’s experience at Caily’s wedding for others to know quite a bit about it - just take a few moments to view the embrace of the photo I chose. But, write I will, because for the most part the writing is for me, and a demonstration of commitment to his memory, life, and legacy. Plus, it’s exceptionally cathartic and writing such as this provides me with emotional expression and personal freedom that no other experience matches.
What do you see when you look at this photo?
What did I see at that moment? What do I see now? What do I wish I could have seen then, that I only see now? Photos are amazing like that. They are glimpses in time that give you two perspectives, the memory of the moment and what you knew and experienced then, as well as the view of the moment from a new place in time, from now.
I wish I could have seen how sick he was, sicker than we knew. Sick with more than just the usual back pain he had been suffering with for years that prevented him from standing and walking upright and that should have, with all medical expectation, prevented him from being able to walk his youngest child down the aisle. He was literally “hell bent” on making it happen. He grinned and bared through the suffering with exceptional pride, not so much for himself and his own dignity, but pride for the child who had become a woman, who he adored, admired, loved and missed most days of her life.
He carried an exceptional amount of guilt and regret for how he handled some areas of his life, including his parenting, especially of my sister. He had never essentially lived in the same home as her, and from the age of about three, he lived across the country. He didn’t really begin a relationship with her until she was about four. He did his best to make up for his shortcomings in parenting, as we all do. He did this by telling us how proud he was, how much he loved us, how much he missed us, by being fully present when we were together.
The last thing he said to me when he walked out of our home that day in October, in addition to how much he loved me, was that he did not want to leave. I told him “then don’t.” But, he did. A complex thread of needs and wants, conscious and unconscious, guide and force our decisions, and this moment was no different. I avoided the thought that it could be the last time I saw him. That awareness was always present, in part because he lived so far away, and in part because he had essentially returned from the dead ten years prior after suffering massive heart damage following an occlusive blood clot in a major vessel in his heart.
Every day beyond that was a gift. At times I was intensely aware of it. But often, after a while, human nature returns us to the assumption that we will have tomorrow again. I wish my “tomorrow may never come” thought had been stronger that month that he was with us for the wedding. I wish I hadn’t overlooked how much pain he was in, how his skin looked pasty and sometimes yellowish. When he asked me about his pain I wish I had said “lets just go see someone here” and scheduled an appointment.
The wedding day was beautiful. The air was crisp and clear, the sky was blue. The river was flowing in front of the guests and just beyond where the JP, groom and other nicely dressed men and my adorable ten-year-old son waited for us. The autumn tree leaves were just beyond peak color, still gorgeous crimson. The plan was for my dad to wait at the bottom of the steps for my sister and then they could join arms and walk toward the arbor. But, he wouldn’t have it, and was waiting for her at the top of the stairs that led down to the park, as she crossed the street from the inn. Navigating the stairs and the relatively long walk down the path must have been physically excruciating and exhausting for him, but what we saw was a determined and beaming father who was committed to doing one thing the way he thought he should and doing it no matter what.
His father-daughter dance with Caily was a stark contrast to his dance with me eleven years earlier. His movements were slow and steady instead of vibrant and even bouncy. He embraced Caily as though he was holding on, both physically and emotionally to life, to an experience, to the years of missed moments, opportunities, and time. Simultaneously, she was holding him up, so they could dance, with care and tenderness, in a little space filled with big love. When I look at that photo, I remember the moment, loving it, crying, knowing that he was taking in as much of this moment as he could, in part to fill the hole of so many other moments that he was not there for. Looking at the photo now, I wonder if he knew this was his Farewell Tour, his final goodbye. It seems his soul knew.
It was a beautiful wedding. He laughed, cried, ate, drank, visited, partied, watched the Red Sox (world series game) and thoroughly enjoyed himself. It was, for sure, his last hoorah; precious moments for him and now for us, that will forever be marked by Caily and Nate’s wedding anniversary, making October 19th both a celebration and a moment of grief and remembrance each year. It's a day when I intimately experience the feeling of being alive. The space shared by our most celebrated and sorrowful moments is a spectacularly tender place to be; the ultimate human experience of Being.