ONE

This entire week, I have been thinking about where I was one year ago. It started last Friday, recalling the fact that I thought we were just heading home for a quick visit the Friday before the Superbowl last year. I was so naïve and maybe even optimistic that David and I would be back in New York City by Sunday morning, early enough to prepare a few menu items and host friends over to watch the game. 

On Saturday, I remembered the first hospice nurses coming by for intake and going to Bed, Bath and Beyond that evening to purchase the correct bedding for a hospital bed that was delivered to our home that afternoon.  

This past Sunday during the game, I tried to think of last year’s halftime show, which my mom and I watched in the kitchen alone. It was the end of an incredibly eye-opening weekend and we were probably two of the only people who enjoyed Maroon 5 because any distraction was welcomed and entertaining. 

The following weekdays are meshed together into a blur of visits from friends and family, bedside vigils, flower and food deliveries, anticipation, fear and honestly a lot of waiting.     

I came home on a Friday when my dad could still tell me he loved me; by Sunday he could no longer speak; on Tuesday we were surprised he was still alive; on Thursday he had passed; on Monday we buried him; and by the following Sunday, I finally went back to my home in New York, two weeks later than expected, fatherless and completely unaware of what the next 365 days would bring. 

Today marks a year since my dad passed away and each day of this week has been torturous in the sense that his final days in my childhood home feel like yesterday and I can’t stand the fact that time continues to go by without him.  It’s heartbreaking to lose one of your best friends for the small talk, chit-chat, advice, emergency moments and pep talks but also to go through life events, both good and bad, without him.  

The loss of the small talk and chit-chat with my dad hits me whenever I walk home from work. That’s when I would typically call him (especially pre-stroke) to get the latest on a variety of topics and give him my daily or weekly update. I still tear up every time I’m walking north on Greene Street between Canal and Grand because it’s usually there that I think “I should give dad a call” and then remember that I can’t. It’s gut-wrenching. 

I miss his advice. I recently went through a career transition and all I could wonder was what my dad would tell me to do. Even more so, what he would tell me I could do. I always sought his approval as well as his support. He was never gray in his advice; it was black and white. It was definitive. It was enthusiastic. He was the dad who would call you by your new work title when he answered the phone after a job offer or promotion. He was the dad who overly researched your company and their stock forecast. He was the dad who offered the safety net if anything was up in the air.   

I miss having his cool, calm and collected responses in emergency situations. Never once panicked by my high shrieks, hysterical crying or chaotic stream of thought. He once drove to meet me at my office after an immunotherapy treatment to walk around the campus and calm me down after an insurance meltdown. He once answered the phone to my hyperventilation after I got into a car accident and his first question was “are you hurt?” 

I often wonder what his response would have been if he were there to accept my call when I received my abnormal mammogram results. How would he have reacted? Would he have kept it together the same way he had always done before while I melted down? Part of me wishes I had him during that stage and another part of me is relieved that he didn’t have to suffer through that as a parent. I know my mom suffered enough.   

But the hardest adjustment is going through the exciting and positive life milestones without him. 

When David proposed, I cried – hard. I cried tears of happiness for everything we had gone through and survived. I cried tears of excitement for the future. And I cried tears of sadness for the fact that my dad wouldn’t physically be there to celebrate. 

I know he was there in spirit and I know he will be there on our wedding day but there is a very real missing piece of the planning puzzle without him. 

David said to me earlier this week, “If Michael Dougherty was here, I would have had my addresses ready two weeks ago.” And I responded, “probably two months ago.” 

He was in the wedding business, as a partner in a venue that hosts a wedding at least once a weekend, and where David and I will get married this summer. The process to get there was relatively smooth, but it is the day to day logistics that cause me pause and frustration. Every time I have a question or idea or concern, I wish he was there to give me his point of view and solve each matter. He would be my personal liaison, expert and essentially planner. He knew the space better than anyone – the capacity, the square footage, the ceiling height, the menu, the vendors and the town. And while it really is just placing that call to someone else, I just wish it was him. Because I know he would take so much joy in the details. 

But above that, my dad loved parties, weddings and a drink everyday at 5pm. My wedding would have been his proudest moment and it absolutely tears my heart apart that he won’t be able to wear his white dinner jacket to his only daughter’s nuptials. 

A very wise friend told me that you truly become an adult once you lose a parent. I, of course, agreed just based on the emotional turmoil that ensued in the immediate days after my dad’s death, but I didn’t realize how much his death would change my life as time continued to pass by. Now as I look back, I see how much I’ve grown over the past year, dealing with obstacles that I previously would throw my dad’s way or depend on him for his counsel. I’ve made it through small challenges like filing my taxes and getting the car inspected as well as the big ones like changing career paths, financial planning, surviving cancer and planning a wedding. 

So, while I would do anything in my power to spend just one more day with him, I’m grateful for the fact that he spent his life empowering me, teaching me, coaching me and trusting me along the way. And that made all the difference. 

Thank you, dad. I love you.