It’s my Dad’s birthday today. Another year has gone by and I still can’t get my head around the fact that he’s not here. When he first died, one of my friends gave me the best (painfully won) advice about grief. She said that time doesn’t make it any easier, but you get used to it. I know that doesn’t sound very comforting, and it’s the opposite of the idea that time heals all wounds, but it helped me. I don’t want this wound to heal. The fog of grief has dissipated but the sharp pain of his absence returns from time to time and I find some solace in that. Maybe I am afraid that if I let all the pain go, I might let him go with it. I don’t know. Years down this road, I still don’t know anything about grief… but my friend was right, I’m getting used to it.
There are times when I miss Dad intensely. Sometimes it is because something significant has happened – like when Indigo chose to publish my book, or I started my PhD, or my sister opened her own shop and I wanted to tell him because he’d be so very proud. Other times, it’s something much smaller – after I watched the TV series of Good Omens, I really wanted to ring him up and talk to him about it. He loved that book, I know he would have loved the series too. The fact of his absence has settled inside me, but it still surfaces, sometimes expected and other times as a bolt from the blue. It hurts, but it’s OK. I’m used to it.
Every year on his birthday, I do something that he would have enjoyed as if we were spending time together. I’ve watched Star Trek, listened to an album with a bottle of real ale or the audiobook of War of the Worlds with his favourite, a cheese scone. Some years, I revert back to what I always used to do on his birthday when he was alive, which is to seek out an amazing book that he would love. Then I read it. I plan these things in advance of his birthday, just as I would if he were around. This evening, I’ll be watching the documentary about his favourite band, ZZ Top, on Netflix. It will hurt a little to do it, these things always hurt a little, but I’m used to it.
I know Dad would be upset and frankly, furious with me if he thought I was wallowing in grief. That’s not what I’m doing, or at least I don’t think it is. I don’t feel like I’m picking at a wound, more like I’m tending to it. Watching that documentary will be like reading the books he never had a chance to read, it’s something I do for both of us. I also know that, given that we always hassled him about his (sometimes questionable) taste in music, he would make a joke about how he had to die before I’d watch such a thing. I know that sounds in poor taste, making a joke out of his death, but it also sounds exactly like him. My Dad fostered my love of books, music and comedy and he’s a part of who I am today. He always believed in me, long before I ever believed in myself. I celebrate his birthday because, despite the pain of his loss and the reminders of his absence, my gratitude at having such a wonderful Dad is the one thing I never quite get used to.