This newsletter is my public journal. While I edit for readability, I don’t write with the audience in mind. Instead, I write for myself, knowing that the more I benefit from my work, the more my audience will too.
I’ve thought for many months about what this “benefit” is . . . What exactly it is my words do. And I’ve come to a conclusion:
The more I write, the deeper I dig; the deeper I dig, the more I understand myself; the more I understand myself, the better I live.
Now, the word “better” has many meanings. For example, if I resolve an obscurity, like not knowing which path to take, then I can move forward with greater clarity and confidence. Or, if I dig to the core of a frustration, like thinking I’m not good enough, then I can be less judgmental.
So self-knowledge (know thyself) has a variety of “benefits.”
The main rule in achieving self-knowlege is honesty. I must be as honest and personal as possible.
Today’s post is personal. It’s not just something I want to write; it’s something I need to write. I need writing today, and for the next several months, to dig through and understand a new frontier: grief.
You see, something happened. Something I thought could not happen. Something I thought was far away in the future.
This letter is an introduction to what I’m sure will become a signficant influence on my work. It’s not a complete piece; I’m just sharing some news along with a journal entry from 11 days ago.
My father passed away on August 30th.
I’ve been hurt many times, but no trauma has ever cut so deep. Until two Fridays ago, this sort of pain was foreign to me.
The death of a parent is one of those things kids worry about. One of those scenarios we play over in our head thinking, wondering how we’d feel.
But then we snap back to reality, often with a little more gratitude, and perhaps mildly teary eyes.
I must admit, I have hoped several times that I’d wake up and realize it was all a dream. But it is not.
I was at a cafe in downtown Charleston when my brother called me. “Hey, what’s up?” I said, walking outside to get away from the noise.
It had been a week or so since I spoke with Matt, so I assumed he was calling to catch up.
But as I reached the door, I heard it in his voice—something was wrong. I inquired. He said I should sit down.
Until this call, I thought disbelief in response to startling news was a figure of speech. But I did not believe my brother.
“Dad is gone.”
I said something like, “What? What do you mean?”
When I called my mom shortly thereafter, I cried, “Is this real?”
The fact that I was halfway across the country exacerbated this disbelief. I could not see his empty chair, or the blank porch TV that once blared Fox News each second of the day, or the front lawn devoid of a crazy man in tattered shorts, sporting the ugliest bucket hat known to the Chicago suburbs, face half-whited with sunscreen, lumbering across the lawn while picking up sticks and waving at neighbors driving by.
Before emotion could paralyze me, I walked back into the cafe with my hand over my mouth, grabbed my stuff, and strode back outside.
What followed was shock. It must have been. My arms went numb. I lost control of my face. And my hand seemed to be cramping. It sounds funny in hindsight, and, I mean, it was. For a couple of seconds, I seriously thought I’d need medical assistance.
Surrounding this event are an assortment of coincidences. I will share them all eventually.
But the first that day was the timing and mere fact of my friend’s arrival.
Charleston is on a peninsula. My friend lives on one of the islands that is, without traffic, 20 minutes away. My point is that he doesn’t typically make his way downtown, espeically during the day.
I write at a cafe every morning for a few hours. Throughout the five years that I’ve been writing in Charleston, he’s coincidentally come to the cafe I was working at zero times. Not once.
But that day, he and his mother decided to grab lunch right where I was. And they pulled up almost exactly as my brother told me what happened.
I was too startled to acknowledge in the moment how strange this was . . . And how much of a blessing it was. Because I’m not sure how I would have fared that day if I had to bear it alone.
Someone must have been watching. In fact, this whole thing seems to have been orchestrated.
I will share share more coincidences in future letters.
A journal entry from the morning after (8/31)
I was supposed to get breakfast with my buddy this morning, but I felt compelled instead to come here and write. I need to write this out.
But I’m not sure what to say. I’m sitting in public right now, and I don’t want to cry, so I’m going to tread lightly here, though I know that’s not the best way to go about something like this. I don’t even know if it’s possible.
So I’ve been told, my Dad passed away yesterday. I can’t believe it. I didn’t at first. People say things like, “I couldn’t believe it.” I didn’t know what that meant until yesterday. I thought it was just a figure of speech. It’s become something we say upon notice of shocking news. But I’ve never before heard news so shocking.
And that’s what came next. My body went into shock. I guess I don’t know exactly if that’s what it was, but that’s what it felt like. Because my arms went numb, and my face and my hand started curling inward. I was worried I’d be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. I swear, for a few seconds, I wondered if I should call an ambulance.
I pain to write this, but it must be done.
Right now, I don’t feel awful, but I think that’s because I’m so far removed from the situation. In a short time, however, that will no longer be the case. I’m getting on a flight, and there are things I’m going to have to face that I’m not looking forward to.
The whole thing is just so wild. I now must speak of my father in the past tense.
I don’t know, yesterday hurt, but I’m worried about whether I’ve gotten through the brunt of it. I can’t cry like I did yesterday. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. Not even when I was a baby.
I’ve been doing as best as I can to see the good. And it’s helped. Part of my ability to see the good certainly has got to do with how far away I am from everything, but I do truly see the bright side. I’m trying to celebrate him—since that’s what he did each and every day—rather than be so down about it. He’d not want us to be sad.
I can’t write much right now. My soul is crawling along. My heart is heavy. It’s just so weird. How could this happen? How is this possible? Is this real? I don’t want to believe it. This is one of those things you always imagine and then get sad about . . . But now, it has actually happened. So many things run through my head. Dad, are you really gone? Would you not pick up the phone if I called?
I did a lot to love the man. I feel like I did. Perhaps not everything I could have. But a good bit. I do wish I would have hugged him more, and laughed at his South Side humor more, and had better conversations with him.
But some of this stuff was out of my control. I cannot feel bad about it. I must not let this bear down upon me. While the relationship we had wasn’t perfect—as is the case with any father-son relationship—it’d become a lot better recently.
And I did get to hug him many times, and he got to see me graduate college, and I was able to have some heart to hearts with him.
There will always be things left undone in these situations. All I can do is love and live as best I can from here on out . . . Not waste my time in this life. Be bold. Tell people I love them. Chase my dreams. Travel the world. This sort of stuff.
He was a good man, and as frustrated as he sometimes got, as wacky as he might have been, he wanted the best for us. And he lived a good life. It sucks that we all have to go at some point, but the bandaid must eventually be ripped away. I don’t think this was anywhere near the worst way for him to go. And so, for that, I’m grateful.
Miss you, Dad.