The "other" kind of broken heart

Earlier this week, I wrote a blog about Valentines' Day ("How can you mend a broken heart?").  I hope everyone had a pleasant day and spread some love around their world.  I made a reference to the fact that there are different types of broken hearts a person can have.  The post from Monday is about the pain that occurs when a romantic love ends.  Today's post is about a different type of heart break.

I was 19 years old when my father passed away.  Eight days after my birthday.  One day after Valetines' Day.  Twenty-three years ago today.  I knew if I kept writing this blog for longer than a month that I would not be able to avoid this topic.  Once I post this blog, know that it probably took me four days to complete it.  Four days may seem like a long time to write one blog post, but I have been researching this subject for 23 years. 

My dad was a husband and father, cop, asshole, and comedian.  These are not necessarily in order; the sequence and frequency of these characteristics could change daily.  People loved him and feared him.  People respected him and played practical jokes on him.  He had these scary eyes that could make you cry and horrific dance skills that made you laugh until you cried again.  He was loved by his wife, his children, his coworkers and friends, and his dogs. 

There are three major groups of people in your life, and when it is time for them to die, your life changes.  I have always felt that when your parent dies, you lose your past.  When a spouse dies, you lose your present.  When a child dies, you lose your future.  When my dad passed away, it was like I could actually feel my childhood being pulled from me like huge pieces of packing tape being removed from my skin.  Some of it was yanked off really fast.  It left these very visible welts that were painful and obvious to others.  It seemed like months went by and everyday there was always another piece that was getting caught on something and ripping off my skin.  Then, as time passed, less and less pieces needed to be removed.  Sometimes things would seem great, and then out of nowhere...RRRIIIIPPPP!  Something would pull off a new piece.  Even all these years later, it still happens.  I think time allows you to be prepared for what is going to bring back the hurt.  I usually know what causes the edges of that tape to start to curl and peel.  There are ways that I can smooth out those edges, but I have learned it is healthy to remove them from time to time.  Does it still hurt to rip off the pieces?  Sure it does, but not as much.  Scar tissue is tougher than new, tender skin.

Out of my closest group of friends (whom I refer to as the "Big 5"), I was the first to lose a parent.  Unfortunately, I am not the only one in our group who has now been through this pain.  Several years ago, my best guy-friend lost his mother.  He said he realized he had no idea what I actually went through so many years ago when my father had died.  I told him that no one can understand the loss of a parent until they lose one themselves.  I believe he grinned and said something to the effect of, "Well, this is one fucked up club we're in."  He doesn't often use the words of a poet, but he definitely expressed it perfectly that day.

Time heals all wounds, and believe it or not, I agree with this saying.  It does not mean it never hurts again.  It does not mean there is no scar or reminders of the hurt.  I think time just allows us to remember what caused the wound, but we get to start forgetting to let it hurt.  We look at it.  We touch the scars.  We get comfortable showing it and telling others about it.  We even get to a point where we might laugh about things that previously were too difficult to even think about.  You have to know that it is alright to heal.  Healing is not forgetting what happened or the person we miss.  Healing is why the tape hurts less and less. 

I miss my dad, but I do not cry as often as I used to.  I wish he could stop by every once in a while to see me, meet my husband and daughters, and even to pet my dog.  They would have loved him as much as I did.