At a loss

Usually I try to be light-hearted in my blog, although I know I've previously posted about tragedy in my own life. I suffered another unexpected loss this past week, and I've been struggling to cope and come to terms with this sudden and abrupt end.

Last Thursday, February 10, my father passed away of what was most likely a heart attack. According to family members still living with my parents, he had felt poorly all week. The stubborn old man had refused to go to the hospital, but they had finally convinced him he should go on Thurs morning. He never woke up that morning.

This has been a great shock to everyone in the family. Dad's birthday is the 27th, and he was going to turn a young 68.

I won't go into a lot of the details of the weekend, but I do want to share a letter I wrote to Dad that I read at his funeral service.

Dear Dad,

I am struggling right now to find the words to express my thoughts. These last couple of days have been surreal – at any moment I keep expecting to hear your voice, to see you laughing.

From the start, your sense of humor shone through (even though I didn’t appreciate it until I was older). You named me after an old girlfriend. I resented being called the “baby” as I became more independent, but that’s what I always was to you. Your youngest daughter and “Baby Girl” forever.

When I was little, my favorite song was “Elvira” by the Oak Ridge Boys because I loved how you sang it to me in your deep (off-key) voice – especially the “Giddy-up oom poppa oom poppa mow mow”

Elvira, Elvira

My heart’s on fire

Elvira.

That was always our special song.

When I turned 16, you were the one who taught me how to drive. I think your patience had grown thin after performing this very service for six others prior to me. Who can forget the way you would bellow, “Slow Down!!!” if the speedometer crept even one mph over the speed limit? You were a stickler for driving the speed limit. I never understood how you could drive so slowly, listen to the boring Purdue classical music station, and yet remain awake and alert behind the wheel.

The older I got, the more common ground I found with you. You always were able to explain Calculus & Physics in a way I could follow if I got stuck on something in class. Aside from a strange sense of humor, we shared a love of science fiction (although I was never a Trekkie like you). When my friends in high school “introduced” me to Ray Bradbury and Frank Herbert, you pointed out that you had read those authors ages ago.

I know that you loved and were proud of all of us, even if you weren’t always able to express this. I am proud to have had you as my Dad.

Love,
Your Baby Girl