Mourning « Kymlee Is Awesome

Tagged: Mourning

Jun 20

Of Mourning, Lost Time and Last Words

I had a feeling this day would be arriving sooner than I was comfortable with admitting. And still I kept telling myself there would be more time. Another Christmas to pop in and sit with him for a while. Another Mother’s Day that maybe we’d have brunch together. Another day I could call and just tell him I love him.

But time ran out and now I’m left with this mourning.

My brother called before sunrise to tell me that our dad had passed. Only, he couldn’t actually say it. He was just crying and I didn’t need him to say the thing I knew he couldn’t say. So I said it for him. And for a moment, I felt myself go numb.

My dad had been very sick for a long time. He had been depressed and lonely since losing the love of his life to breast cancer. He hadn’t been the daddy I remembered for many years and we had grown apart.

As I got older, I started feeling like maybe I never knew my dad very well. He was an emotionally-closed man of few words. But somehow I always knew that he loved me. And I loved him. And we loved each other the best way we knew how.

Unfortunately, when I wasn’t making the effort, we went long stretches without seeing each other. The kid in me wanted her daddy to just pick up the phone and call her. The adult in me wanted the kid to get over it and call dad. And I did, once…about a year ago.

He was in the hospital and I was afraid that would be my last chance to talk to him. I asked him if I should visit and he told me he’d call me when he got home — which, of course, he never did. As we talked I asked him about his health and he spun me some bullshit about being ok. I wanted to believe him, but I knew he wasn’t well. Still, I didn’t push. We had a short conversation before we ran out of things to say and began our goodbyes.

“Dad,” I said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Kimberlee.”

And those were the last words we said to each other.

The next time I saw him, he was in the hospital again. This time in a diabetic coma and even more frail than I remembered. I almost didn’t recognize him. I sat next to his bed wishing I knew more about his condition…hoping he’d wake up and I would have one more chance to talk to him.

That was three weeks ago and today I got the call I had been expecting — and dreading. And while I wish I had been brave enough to visit him in recent years, I am so grateful that the last thing we said to each other was “I love you.”

1
comments

Posted in My Life, Well That Sucks death in the family Mourning Reflections

Oct 15

A tribute to my cousin, on his birthday

Today is my cousin’s birthday. He died a young man…too young. Survived by three children and a beautiful woman who has been raising those kids on her own since his death. It’s hard not to be sad when thinking about Jamar and his death. But instead of sadness, I want to pay tribute to the love we shared.

Jamar and I didn’t grow up together as you would expect cousins should. We spent a little time together as kids, but nothing I can really recall with clarity or regularity. But as I got older, I began feeling the need to connect and spend time with my cousins. So I called. And when I got a car, I would go visit at least once or twice a month; sometimes once or twice a week.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but these visits would lay the foundation for undoing the disengagement our parents had created. We enjoyed each other’s company and loved each other. We became friends and confidants. We became family.

Eventually he and his family moved to Los Vegas and we didn’t spend as much time together, but we never grew apart. Then, one day, I got a call. Jamar had over-dosed on drugs and had died.

So we dropped everything, and headed to Las Vegas to be together as a family, mourn his loss and celebrate his life.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had missed so much, that I hadn’t had enough time; that he was entirely too young. But I remembered the afternoons we had spent chatting and watching TV in his living room. The time I knocked over his beer and he joked “I beat my kids for less!” I realized that I was lucky. Despite the boundaries that had kept us apart as kids, we had developed a deep bond as adults.

Sometimes, when the program I created for his memorial falls out of my journal, I cry, wishing I had had more time. But all that matters is that he knew I loved him and that I knew he loved me. His loss brought the rest of us together. For all of these things, I am grateful.

So this is my tribute to my cousin Jamar. I really miss him.

0
comments

Posted in My Life, The Fam family Introspection Loss Mourning