I lost my dad a year ago today. Okay, so technically we lost him long before that, but that’s another blog for some other time. Tonight I just… well, I need to write. I need to brain dump the anger and the sadness.

He was the pillar of the family, that foundation and the glue. His love for all of us was prominent, especially when he was losing the ability to form coherent sentences. The words “I love you” were most likely the last to go. I think I heard those words from him enough to have a single “I love you” for years to come, and I will be forever grateful for that.

Still, I’m angry. I’m angry at myself for time lost, opportunities missed. I’m angry at myself for how much I clashed with him growing up, how we never seemed to get along until quite some time after I had moved out. I’m angry that I took things personally, that I had convinced myself that he’d never love and accept me as I am.

I’m hurt that I had to hear it from someone I worked with that he was proud of me.

I’m angry that we didn’t get more time. I’m still convinced we would have had more, even though they said he’d forgotten how to swallow. To me, he’d given up. I know he was tired, and I know he didn’t want to live that way.

As I type this, as I hand pick what I can and can’t say because some of it is family business, I can feel the weight slipping off my shoulders. I had his last day with him. Almost the entire day, and most of that was by myself. I was there to calm him through the seizures. I was there to kiss his forehead, to rub his back, to talk to him and let him know that he wasn’t alone. I was able to rally the troops, as he would say. I let everyone know they needed to be there, sick or not. I got to tell him when he was awake, alert that we were going to take care of each other, just like he taught us to. I got to tell him I would always be his baby, just like I’d said to him when I was all of… what? Three? I’m the one who told my mother to turn and talk to him, and say what she needed to say. And my hand was on him when he left us. I was able to be there. I was able to say goodbye, and I was able to stay until they wheeled him away.

So that’s my first blog post. Not even introducing myself, just a midnight ramble about anger and pain and loss. Depressing, right? But I’ve brain dumped, and it’s out there. Me. Musings of that one writer chick.

And now, I want a beer and a cigarette.