A letter up to heaven.

Hey, Dad.

It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything to or about you, but as the holidays approach, you’re weighing more heavily on my heart than ever.

You died on January 14th, and since then, like clockwork, the 14th of each month hits and my heart aches. Oftentimes, I don’t even realize it’s that dreaded mid-month date until I feel a tightening in my chest that can’t be ignored. I look at my calendar and realize why.

I’ve never been one for celebrating or paying attention to anniversaries of anything — relationships, major milestones, sadder moments. I even got rip-roaring stomach flu on my first wedding anniversary (more on that later). But this one, the anniversary of losing you, seems to be synced with my heartbeat, ready to knock me down each month.

It’s November 14, which means you’ve been gone for 10 months. I wish I could tell you it’s gotten easier, but it hasn’t. Although I am now able to lift my head out of the bed and follow the daily to-dos that go along with living a normal, non-grief-stricken life, I carry you with me everywhere I go, like a sopping wet backpack full of bricks.

I’ve tried just about everything people suggest: therapy, scripture reading, meditation, medication, alcohol, daily walks, listening to calming music, moving, new hobbies, new friends, avoiding the thought of you altogether, reading self-help books, and none of it does the trick. It seems that the big doctor upstairs has prescribed me a thick dose of “waiting for time to pass so my heart can heal.” I’ve decided to write to you instead. I’ve never been much for waiting.

I curled up on the couch in your green flannel on Saturday and sobbed for three hours. These are not the things I imagined I would be experiencing almost a year after losing you. While you were sick, I knew that losing you would be the hardest thing I’d ever do. I just had no idea just how long this hurt would sit on the surface, like a torn-open flesh wound instead of something healing quietly underneath.

A lot has happened in 2016. To be honest, your absence aside, it has been filled with its own share of highs and lows. I’ve been keeping a list on my phone since February of things you’d get a kick out of:

• Droid-loving Chris got an iPhone AND a fiance. He’s killing it at work, like you always knew he would if he really wanted to.
• I took Brooks to Europe and showed him everything we loved about Italy.
• They published a piece I wrote about you on The Huffington Post
• Paige finally admitted it was stupid to choose to keep your feet over hands in “Would You Rather.” (You always got a kick out of the fact that she said ‘I don’t really use my hands all that much.’)
• Tennessee beat Florida, and we WERE 5–0 for the first time since 1998. I’ll spare you what happened next…
• Prince died. Have you seen him?
• Adele got married.
• Mom frequently discusses things like “budgets” and “taxes.” She’s become so independent you wouldn’t believe it.
• Brooks and I picked up everything we own and moved to Denver. You would love visiting. I think of you every night while I watch the sunset over the mountains. I really do feel closer to you here.
• Mom regularly flies out here BY HERSELF. She even stayed in a Red Roof Inn on her way once to save money. I know, I was shocked too. But she probably won’t be doing that again.
• A reality TV show star is our president-elect.
• I started my own business, and it has been the most stressful-yet-wonderful thing. I think of questions I could ask you every day, but I’m learning to be more independent and figure them out for myself.
• I’m learning to like being alone again. For months, anytime I wasn’t with another person I cried until I threw up. This Saturday’s spell aside, the waves of uncontrollable despair come less often.

You never read Harry Potter, but there’s a great quote in there that says, “Don’t pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living. And most of all, those who live without love.”

Although I am living without you, I am surrounded by more love and support than I ever thought possible. I somehow ended up marrying an actual angel. Dad, you would be so proud of how wonderful Brooks is to me. He had big shoes to fill almost immediately, as you have been the most important man in my life for so long. But he’s managed to fill them until they overflow. Brooks often jokes that he would still be second place in my heart if you were still here. He’s probably right. But he is my rock and we have found a wonderful group of friends in Denver that keep us company in between the very frequent visits from various family and friends. There is no lack of love in the home that we have built here. It even has a fireplace.

Thanksgiving is next week, and Christmas will follow. I think I was so rattled on Saturday because I worry the next two months will resemble the first few without you — full of new painful “firsts” and a flood of bittersweet memories. I’ll picture you eating pecan pie for breakfast, helping me with puzzles and drinking wine while watching It’s A Wonderful Life together on Christmas Eve after everyone else is asleep. I’ll miss you as I shop for Chris and mom — something we have always done together. I’ll miss driving around looking at Christmas lights and singing “Dusty the Elf.”

The holidays are supposed to be a joyous time, and the planner in me is working diligently to keep them that way. We decorated for Christmas on November 6. We’re going skiing for Christmas as a healthy distraction. Brooks and I are volunteering for an organization called Cooking Matters, to help teach low-income families how to shop for groceries cook healthy meals on a food stamp budget. I want to give back to those who have clearly lost so much more than I have.

I’m buying more presents for everyone else than I’m asking for, like you would. I’m listening to Van Morrison and cooking each night, like you would. I’ll drink too many mimosas and take a mid-afternoon nap on a Sunday, like you would. I’ll get outside and hear the crunch of fallen leaves (or snow, now!) under my hiking boots, like you would. I might not even complain about it. Most importantly, I’m going to call my friends and family and tell them how much they mean to me, like you did in your final weeks last year over the holidays.

I don’t know if I’ll ever wake up and feel “normal” again, but I want you to know I’m doing my very best. Dumbledore was right when he said not to pity the dead, but I don’t want you to pity the living, either. We’ll be okay down here. We have you to thank for that.

I love you always.

Grieverse is a medium publication where I share stories of losing my father to pancreatic cancer and navigating the grief that follows. If you would like to donate to my husband’s campaign to pancreatic cancer research, click here.