The third Father’s Day without my father

Dad passed 2 years ago, right before Father’s Day. The first Father’s Day, we were deep in mourning, yet engulfed in love and support, not only from friends and family but also from my dad. Although he was gone, I’m certain he sent us unmistakable signs of his presence that day. I felt loved and supported on that first Father’s Day without him. The second Father’s Day, I was 41 weeks pregnant, so all my attention was on the impending arrival of my little one. I missed Dad, but there was a new focus and it was difficult to diverge from my new mommy brain.

This year, the third Father’s Day without my dad, I was prepared for 2 years of mounting grief to spew out of my heart as a gut wrenching reminder that I had no father to call or see on Father’s Day. So, I thoughtfully busied my lonely, grieving thoughts with planning for my husband’s first Father’s Day instead.

I hadn’t been feeling as connected to my dad as I had when he first passed away. I hadn’t been trusting the signs I had been receiving either. I felt as if there was no way the same signs could still be meaningful. As soon as I got a sign, my brain jumped in and told me it was all a coincidence, that it had been too long since he had passed, that I didn’t need signs and support like I did when he first died. Without signs and without trust in a connection, I felt lonely and abandoned. I buckled down to prepare myself for the certain feeling of loss on Father’s Day.

One day, close to Father’s Day, I went to Whole Foods to get ingredients for dinner. I passed by the cards and doubled back, remembering I hadn’t gotten a card for my husband yet, when I saw it: the most perfect Father’s Day card of all time for my father.

It was a beautiful blue card with clean, large, white lettering spelling “Dad”. In the background was the ocean and sky in two tones of brilliant blues and a small little red sailboat with a green sail. My dad loved to sail. He went almost every weekend in the summer. Inside was a simple message, wishing him, a wonderful dad, a perfect Father’s Day “from beginning to end.” This card was meant for him. The small number 7 (his favorite number) on the sail was just enough to make me stand there for a solid three minutes contemplating buying a Father’s Day card for a father that could never receive it.

There had been so many years that I had spent searching for the most perfect card for my dad for Father’s Day, but I had never found it. I didn’t want it to be too silly, too sappy, too insincere, but I wanted to tell him how much he meant to me without the rarely used “I love you” that I saved until his deathbed. My dad didn’t golf, or fish or drink beer, or barbique. So many cards just didn’t make sense for him. But, this card made sense. What’s a word for more than perfect? Divine? It was that.

All that searching for a perfect card across all those years and now that I found it, I could never send it to him. But, I wasn’t sad. Not for one second. I never pitied myself for not having a dad to send this card to. I didn’t even feel empty or lost without him. In fact, it was almost the opposite. I felt more loved and more supported knowing I could buy it for him and that would be enough for me to honor him on Father’s Day. It felt like the perfect way to celebrate a day that I didn’t know what to do with. It almost felt like if I left the card in the store, there would be emptiness. If I took it home, I felt like he would know I got this card for him somehow.

I stood there another 5 minutes longer and struggled unsuccessfully to find the yet another perfect card for my husband all the while the card for my dad was already in the shopping basket.

When I got home with the perfect and imperfect Father’s Day cards, I told a few people that I am close with about the card for my dad. These were people I knew wouldn’t think I was insane or deeply saddened for buying this card. I shared it with people who believed my dad was still with me, that he truly could receive the card. Some friends asked, “Where will you send it?” I hadn’t thought about that. Others asked, “Are you going to write in it?” I for sure knew I would write in it. My husband suggested writing to him, lighting him a candle and leaving it by the candle. I liked this idea. But where would the card go afterwards? How could I just keep this card going nowhere? Would it be better composted? Would I recycle it? Stuff it in a drawer? Suddenly, at this moment, confusion set in for the first time about the card. It didn’t feel right to get rid of the card and didn’t feel right to save it for him either. How could it have felt so right to bring the card home and now feel so wrong to process it?

Then, one person made a suggestion that warmed my heart and released 2 years worth of tucked away tears all at once. Maybe the card wasn’t ever meant to be sent to my dad. Maybe it was him who sent the card to me. Maybe the card was meant for me as a reminder that he is still with me.

Maybe it was the release of warm tears rolling off my chin, but with this new perspective, I was relieved. Without the need for me to get the card to him, I could finally fully enjoy the card for what it really was: a gift of appreciation, love and support. As the unsettled feeling of “what to do with the card” dissipated, I realized that the card completed its purpose the minute I received it as a gift.

What made me check those Father’s Day cards that day? I don’t even know. I went to the store for ingredients for a new dinner recipe. I don’t even like to cook, nevertheless try new recipes. I even had a list. The plan was to stick to the list. I only had 10 minutes for the store anyway before I had to get home to the sitter. I remember walking past the cards. I remember getting about 6 steps past the cards when my brain processed even seeing the cards. I remember turning back without hesitation. I remember finding the card for my dad immediately, as if it were the only card on the rack. I remember feeling joy. I remember feeling comfort, not loss or sadness. It was the same feeling of support I felt the anniversary of his death: the feeling of everything flowing and falling perfectly into place, like a gentle breeze lifting me just slightly off my feet, weightlessly carrying me through the day.

It must have been him. His message to me. Not a reminder of loss, but the sign I had been asking for, the sign he is still with me.

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