My dog got sick with cancer while I was working on finishing Stealing Midnight. I completed it with her by my side, knowing her time was short. I fed her. A lot. No more worries about her weight; she ate and ate and ate, and I promised her she’d die fat. I did right by her. She’d had a long life, and death became a turning of the final page, a sad, dignified end, a life greatly missed but also well lived. She died when it was time, at home, doped up on tranquilizers and sleeping when they put the needle in. It took two people to carry her out.
I haven’t stopped missing her.
My dad died 4 months ago, 11.7.10, at exactly 7pm.
I didn’t get to feed him, to sit by him in quiet company. I did not get to ask him what I wanted to know, to tell him what I needed him to hear. He didn’t get to know how much I loved him. I didn’t get to do right by him, to teach him how to be a better dad, to show him I could be a better daughter. It all happened so quickly; I always thought I’d have more time. And then one day, there was no more time. Game over. My loss.
It makes perfect sense and yet it makes no sense at all. Why we can love a pet without reservation, and make this human problem so very complicated.
I feel selfish saying I miss my dad. Before he became ill, I spent very little time with him. I have no right to miss him.
But I miss his presence, only a short walk away, no matter that I rarely dropped by, regardless he came to my home only once. I miss his snide comments, his brilliance, his laugh, his cooking. I miss his stories, his knowledge, the pride I took in being like him. He loved it that I wrote books. He wanted to write, too. We were the same, I thought. Almost exactly the same. I was so very much like him, I told myself. More like him than my brothers. More like him than anyone else. If only he would see.
I want to get mad at him again. I want to be angry with him for not caring, not calling, not wanting me around. But I can’t get angry anymore, because he’s dead. There is nothing so impotent as anger at someone who is gone. I can’t even ignore him anymore. He’s not around to feel the sting of my indifference.
No one I know reads this…so I can say it here, to no one, I can shout it to the void of the internet: I miss my dad, selfishness be damned. He was my dad and I wanted him all my life, just a piece, just a tiny smidge of a relationship. I longed for him. I so desperately wanted him to like me.
Why didn’t he like me? What did I do wrong? I look at my son and I see how beautiful he is, how brilliant, so kind and loving and strong. How could my dad look at me and not think the same? Why didn’t he love me?
I said goodbye to him at the hospital, awkwardly, afraid it was the last time, certain it was the last time. He was so uncomfortable, feeling so poorly, and yet he bore his sickness with dignity; no complaining, graciously thanking the doctors who tried to help him. I so loved him for that, was so proud of him.
We said goodbye, my brothers and I. I told him I loved him. He didn’t say it back.
I miss writing books.
I miss my dog.
I miss my dad.
