Two years it’s been since my guardian angel gained his wings. Two years ago today that Superman himself took his last breath with his family at his side. It’s still surreal to me to know that death is such a permanent state of being. It’s surreal to know that the smile you spent your entire life seeing, is now just a faded memory and can only be viewed in pictures. That voice you spent your entire life knowing, you'll never be able to hear again. Death is just so very permanent. Nearly two years later and I still stand in shock wondering if this day in life ever really happened. I stand outside my parents’ house looking at the yard that he used to mow; or look in the garage at the truck he used to drive, and then it hits me all over again that yes, my Dad is really gone. Everyday on my commute home, I am forced to ride by the hospital in which he passed in, and I can’t help but to remember the morning that I walked out of those doors with one less parent than I went in with. Upon losing my dad, I was provided with a number of words; some of encouragement; some of understanding; some of comfort; and some of which didn’t make a lot of sense until now. Most people never get over the death of a close loved one, they just simply find ways to cope with their “new normal”. You find ways to begin what feels like a whole new game of life that’s missing one of your most critical players. I can’t lie that sometimes I feel guilty for smiling so much, for coping so well, but mainly for the fact that my life has continued to go on. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’ve been able to adapt to my new normal and proceed with life accordingly. And it’s in those moments of guilt that I also try to find peace. My Dad knew that his time was coming and knew exactly where his final destination lied and had come to terms with that before he left. He and I had exchanged our final thoughts and final words and had absolutely nothing left unsaid. The only thing that he wanted for his family was for us to be okay. For us to continue being the tight knit unit that we were; to support and be there for one another, and to continue living the life that we had built before his passing. My Dad wouldn't want me spending my days being buried in sadness and grief. He wouldn't want me to not to continue to be able to function daily. But rather he would want me to continue doing those same things he experienced me doing before he left, creating new goals and then setting out to achieve them and reaching my maximum potential. To continue being the best mother that I can be to the granddaughter that he adored so much. To continue being the best daughter and sister that I can to my mom and brother. And while I most certainly find peace in knowing that I am doing exactly what my Dad has asked of me, it still doesn't remove the feelings of guilt I feel that I am not allowed to be "this" happy without him. But like all things in life, I have faith that those feelings of guilt will flee from me in the days to come.
In recent situations, I find myself sitting still and just recalling many of the life lessons that he’s taught me over the years. I am constantly greeted with reminders of my Dad, especially when I need it the most. By way of a cardinal landing on a nearby tree or flying in front of my car; driving behind a black Silverado in traffic or on the freeway; seeing a stranger who looks like him and a plethora of other things that I deem as being God-sent. It’s bittersweet because I’d much rather have him here in the physical, giving me life advice, telling me not to worry about the things I overly stress about, one last hug and kiss on the forehead and hearing him say “I love you sweetheart.” And while the physical would obviously be much more ideal, I’m grateful for the spiritual signs and interventions that act on his behalf. I know that he’s with me always. So to those who told me that grief never gets easier, you just learn how to better cope with it, you’re right. As today marks the two-year anniversary of the day that changed my life, rather than cry because he’s gone, I’ve learned to smile and stand grateful for all of the beautiful memories that I had the opportunity to create.