Our First Father's Day without Him

It's been 7 months, and yet a day cannot end without me thinking about him . . .once or twice, at least.  I find myself thinking, "He was only 56. That's too damn young."  Father's Day was last Sunday, and that was especially hard.  The kids decided to spend the day driving down to their father's new home to place an American flag, a patriotic pinwheel, and some red carnations on his grave site.

Scott G. Cole, USN Ret., laid to rest at Willamette National Cemetery in Portland, OR

They said there were a LOT of people in that section of the National Cemetery that day, visiting their fathers' and grandfathers' grave sites for the first Father's Day  without their loved one. They said it was a sad thing to have in common with everyone around them.

I took advantage of having an empty home, by doing some much--needed house cleaning.  Only I chose the wrong day to clean out the closet under the stairs.  After Scott moved into the hospital bed in the family room, we needed a handy place to store his many sweatpants, sweatshirts, knit caps, wool socks, and Depends under garments.  We kept all his bulk supplies of medications and equipment in there too.  Not enough room in the nearby bathroom for that pharmacological plethora.  So that closet went from being the place we kept the vacuum cleaner, brooms and my underused bike, to being "Dad's closet."  Only a month after his death, I moved his regular clothes out of the closet we shared upstairs.  Like most wives, I have always been in desperate need for more closet space.  And he hadn't worn anything in that closet for months . . .since he only left the bed to go to the chemo lab.  So cleaning that closet out was actually fun.  I gave whatever my brother could use to him, and the rest went to the garage for the yard sale I plan to have this summer.  And I finally had a place to hang my off-season clothes that had been out of sight and out of mind in a tub on the floor.

I was not ready for the emotional upheaval brought on by cleaning out the closet under the stairs.  The silly skinny green tee shirt with the Oregon Duck mascot on it, acting all silly did NOT make me smile, the way it did the day I bought it during our last trip to Eugene in October.  I just noticed how tiny it was.  He had lost so much weight, towards the last few weeks, that the tiny shirt engulfed him.  All I could think was, he was leaving me pound by pound . . .day by day.  As I cleaned out that closet, I held and smelled every piece of clothing.  I gave the 12 pair of fresh crew socks that were still in the package to Byron, thinking how much I would love to hear his dad complain, just one more time, how he hates it when Byron steals his socks.  I was tempted to put the new box of Depends in my craft studio closet, like I do anything I think might be useful in crafting or cleaning up my art work.  But I imagined the difficult memories I was feeling that moment would haunt me every time I used one.  It was so hard to see him unable to control his own bowels or pull up his own pants.  The worst part was, he was painfully aware of his loss of functions and hated to bother those of us who were caring for him. But he soldiered through every embarrassing trip to the bathroom and sheet changing.  So, no, I could not keep those adult diapers.  They weren't cheap, and someone else will appreciate having them . . .though they won't appreciate needing to have them.

I always love looking into a freshly-cleaned closet, savoring the view, wishing it would always stay that clean and orderly. But all I saw in that closet was an empty space.  I didn't even feel like filling it up with the many things that need a new home.  It's just too hard right now.  Every time I open that door to grab the broom, I think of the clothes that used to be there . . . and the man that used to sleep in the hospital bed nearby.  He was too damn young to be gone.

The Saturday after that, I decided to get out and enjoy the sunshine . . . somewhere away from home, so I wouldn't get caught up in more housecleaning or planting flowers or weeding the new flower beds that are already sprouting weeds.  I wanted to get some photos of my two beautiful dogs, while they were still young and healthy.  Their breed doesn't live long, and lately I've really started to regret knowing I'll have to say goodbye to them sooner than I want.  Anyway, I met my friend Carolyn, a wonderful photographer who loves dogs, at a favorite dog park that Scott and I used to take our dogs to a lot. She brought her dog with her, and the dogs enjoyed playing in the dog park with all the other dogs.  We also explored the trails and paths around the park, looking for good spots for some photos. I didn't even know those trails existed.  Again, all I could think about was how unfair it was that Scott did not live long enough to discover these great spots with us.  He LOVED to hike and explore the outdoors.  Historical sites, like the one we were at, were his favorite.  One of our last outings together was at Marymoore park, where the dogs discovered how much fun it was to run and hide in the tall grass.  Scott said that they seemed to love it almost as much as they love romping in the snow.  He would have loved to see them, enjoying the grass again.  And I would love to see him watching them again. But instead, it's just me and my dogs now.

Check out www.StandingStonesPhotography.com. Carolyn is an awesome photographer.

I wonder how long it will be, before I quit thinking this way. . . thinking how much Scott would have enjoyed something.  I don't feel guilty for enjoying stuff .  . . and I imagine with all of heaven to explore, he isn't really missing the stuff on earth anyway.  It's just that I just miss sharing it with him. I read another widow's blog yesterday, and after 8 years, she was still having such thoughts.  I guess that's just a part of the new me.  At least I have nothing but good memories to recall.