Grief and Gratitude

This week's Notes from Home is a little different because this week is a little different for me.

October has always been a heavy month. It's the month we lost my dad to pancreatic cancer, and every year I find myself replaying that time in my mind: the grief, the void he left, and the fear that I wouldn't be able to go through life without him there to guide me.

This is the first time I've shared anything like this. I've always talked about how amazing he was, but never in this way.

One of my first memories is sitting in church with my parents. I couldn't have been older than three or four. My dad's arm was around me, and I could hear my mom singing the hymns above everyone else. I remember squinting up at the stained glass and the church lights, holding my dad's hand, and twisting his ring around his finger. It's a memory I carry with me, and in it I feel so protected and loved.

But that memory didn't end at church. Early on Sunday mornings, my mom would start cooking dinner for when we returned. Sunday dinners always meant homemade sauce, homemade bread, and the whole afternoon together as a family. To this day, the smell of sauce and bread makes my heart feel full, because it feels like being home with my family.

My parents were the people who first taught me what home is: safety, family, protection, love.

My dad came here from Italy in his late 20s and had to adjust to living in a country that was unfamiliar to him. He learned the language and went back to school while working. He became an engineer and created medical instruments that, to this day, help so many people. He met my mom in his early 30s, and our family was born.

Later in life, just before my dad was diagnosed, we would cook dinner together, go for a walk after dinner, then come home and tend to the vegetable garden while talking about the day. It was when I got to know my dad not only as my father and protector, but as a human “Our conversations and our relationship became a bit different, and it was a time I am so grateful for, when I can honestly say he became my friend.

He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer around then. I remember being so scared for him, for what he was going through, and of losing him. He was my anchor, my guide, the one who walked me to my safe place and home in life.

Over the next few years, he went through so much physically and heard prognoses that were not good. No matter what, he always said he wasn't going anywhere, that they didn't know him. And he surprised more than a few doctors and nurses along the way.

He was so strong and so inspiring, but what I remember most is that he was kind, and funny at a time when you wouldn't expect it. He could have been angry or bitter about his situation. Instead, he would tell jokes to the medical staff at the hospital, tell stories, and really get to know them and connect with them.

He spent a lot of time in the hospital, and I remember him asking me to stop and pick up chocolates or treats for the nurses, or a little Christmas tree. He told me he was grateful for them. That was when I realized the importance of kindness and gratitude, in life and in health.

This year feels especially reflective. He’s been gone for the same amount of time he was here, and that feels weird and heavy to think about.

I miss him every single day, and I would give anything for one more minute with him; one more conversation, one more walk, one more chance to hold his hand.

But because of him, I am so grateful. I'm grateful for him, for these memories and so many others, for what he taught me, and that I was lucky enough to call him my father. More importantly, the lessons I learned from him about kindness and gratitude are both part of my daily practice.

He always told the doctors he wasn't going anywhere, and he hasn't. I know he is still with me. I see little signs from him so often, and they always seem to show up when I need them most.

Just like in church, and on our evening walks, he holds my hand and walks me home on hard days.