A lifetime of love lost and found

rediscovered in the most unexpected and beautiful ways

My dad had a two-door 1993 Chevy Camaro. It was cherry bomb red with a dark interior. The doors were long and wide, barely skimming the ground. The car was smooth and sophisticated in style like the man.  

The interior smelled of a stale blend of suspected day-old menthol cigarette smoke, cologne, and fragments of a new car. 

Coins, wrappers, rolls of half-consumed cool mint lifesavers, slim boxes of spearmint chiclet gum, and a tube or two of ChapStick (original or strawberry flavored) crowded the center console.   

It was the car my dad taught me how to drive in and would later come to my rescue when I needed to pass my driver’s license test. The car my dad would pick my friends and me up from summer school, awarding him a forever image of coolness.   

Little did I know that learning to drive was one of many life lessons my dad would teach me. 

He taught me the importance of earning a living at a young age. He would pay me $1 at a time to scratch his back or iron and starch his long-sleeve, buttoned-up, collared shirts.

He taught me how to pay attention and to enjoy a good story. He loved to tell me of how, when I was a young girl, he would read me a bedtime story and skip ahead, and I would always catch on and tell him he had to go back.

He took me to 49ner and Giants games, planting the seeds for the love of the sport, Steve Young, and Bobby Estella. You could always count on my dad to bring a thermos of hot chocolate and a bag of shelled peanuts.

When it came time for me to invest in the stock market, I wanted to invest in green, environmentally conscious companies. My dad would remind me that the only "green" in the stock market was money. I did invest in Green Mountain Coffee and the stock wound up doing well, he would call me up and constantly ask, do you still have that stock? Amazed at how well it did.

When I wavered in doubt, wondering if my words were worth voicing, he reminded me that I mattered and to believe in myself—often telling me how beautiful my writing was and that I had a gift. He encouraged me to write a book. I published my first book in 2021 on our birthday, December 24th. I gave him a copy and would read passages to him. For days and weeks, he kept the book next to him.

In the last few months with my dad, he taught me more about life and death and what it means to love, accept, forgive, and to genuinely rest in the moment as it is not by what he said but by what wasn’t said.  

One day, at the end of March 2022, I received a call from my brother, Jim, telling me we would be turning my dad's pacemaker off.

Though logically, I knew my dad was not improving, that he was in pain and suffering, I had not fully embraced his impending death until then.

I become clear on what was most important and meaningful to me at that moment. From there on out, I would visit my dad daily (or as often as I could) until his passing.

Knowing you and all you love will someday die and the discomfort it brings, we put death in a bottle and throw it out to sea, thinking that someday it will happen but surely not today.

The uncomfortable and sad realization made its way into my body; "someday" had arrived for my father, for us.

I have come to understand that the secret to life lies beneath the mystery of "someday."

In those first couple weeks of daily visits, I soon discovered that each day and time of day would prove to be different. His mental and cognitive capacity had declined. His memory and mood shifted. I never knew what to expect or how much he remembered, understood, or paid attention to. Then, one day, he looked at me and said, "you are acting like I am dying."

I laughed to myself. From that moment on, I sensed a shift. An unspoken promise to make the most of our time together.

Together, we wrote the ending of our love story, our portrayal of home and heart, and the relationship between father and daughter. A lifetime of love lost and found, complicated, and celebrated, reshaped and rediscovered in the most unexpected and beautiful ways.

I asked myself how I wanted to show up for him, myself, and us. And what it truly means to see someone each day as if you were seeing them for the first time and as though it would be your last.

I wanted to remember these last few days, weeks, and months. No matter how uncomfortable. I wanted to be present for it all. I wanted to honor our life together and his. I released the past, let go of the what-ifs and shoulds, and arrived with an open and willing heart to face the reality unfolding.

Our time together revealed what it means to show up without expectation, judgment, and resentment and sit in the purity of love. Our history was present but not tarnished; the past and present taking on new life and breath.

Through our pain, suffering, and tears, I learned to hold a generous and compassionate space for his process and mine. I practiced holding presence with what was without trying to fix, manipulate, change, or distract away. I learned that when I fought, resisted, and struggled against reality and wished it was different for him and us, I got swept away from the moment, and peace didn't have a chance. For ease, presence, and connection to return, I needed to practice resting with what was because the truth of the matter is the outcome would stay the same either way.

Our visits demonstrated and showed the richest ways two humans can connect without words and beyond the confines of our minds, opinions, conditions, and beliefs.

He reminded me how to enjoy life's simple pleasures: holding hands, looking into one another's eyes, scratching his back, hugs, and kisses.

He would lift his left arm and I would crawl underneath. It was there I found comfort in my father’s illness and death, my cheek to his chest, his arm wrapped over me, fingers rubbing my back.

Love was expansive and forgiving in those moments and days with my dad.

In his suffering, I witnessed courage and compassion. I saw a man so proud of his life and children. A man ready to be free but also afraid to let go of the only life he had ever known.

I practiced holding a untroubled space, hoping he could taste peace and joy, if only brief. I looked him in the eyes and told him it was OK to cry, to be scared, and to let go. I told him how much I loved him and thanked him for being the best dad.

I look back fondly on those precious moments when we would watch old music videos of The Beatles, Eagles, Frank Sinatra, and more. Every time I sang along, he would look at me and say, "how do you know these songs."

On the rare occasion I was not in yoga clothes, or when my hair was up in a bun, he would look at me and tell me how pretty I looked, asking why I looked so nice. I would say it was for him.

From the outside in, one might only see suffering and pain, loss and sadness, and a man who didn't deserve to die the way he did, but if you read between the lines, you see a rich and abundant life filled with love, courage, and compassion.

Truth and sorrow are some of our greatest teachers, our greatest gifts.

I was able to hold my father, marking a profound change in the way I carry our relationship in my heart.

Though my dad's memory was not the sharpest towards the last years of his life, he always remembered to ask about work, how many miles were on my car, my husband, and the restaurant, and, of course, Jax, our 16 year old cat.

He would always ask, "how is the little guy." I would show him videos and pictures of Jax, and he would reminisce on the days he used to feed him. Often my dad would tease me that he took Jax for a run while I was away. In the years since he stopped feeding Jax, he often said, "Jax doesn't remember me." I would assure him that he did.

Jax suddenly and unexpectedly passed ten days before my dad on June 13, 2022. I like to believe that not only did Jax remember my dad but that he was there, waiting for him on the other side, welcoming him with open arms and guiding him on his spirit journey. When I look into the sky and see two birds in flight, I think of them together, flying free.

For my dad and I, this is not the end but the beginning of a new story. Our love transcends time.

In the words of my dad, "enjoy life." Remember what is most meaningful and precious to you and seek it daily. Someday is not promised, but today, this moment is.

Thank you, dad, for showing me what it truly means to embrace "it is what it is."

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Hello family, dear friends, and loyal readers, 

Today I share with you a very personal and special piece. It was written and shared at my dad's celebration of life in October of 2022. My dad passed away on June 23, 2023 and Jax on June 13, 2022. They were two of my biggest fans and two of my most precious beings. They adored my writing and encouraged me to do what I love. It only seems fitting that this piece would be my first post and publication on Substack.

I often hear writers, authors, and songwriters say that when they write, they feel like another voice or energy is moving or downloading through or alongside them. I never understood this until recently. My dad and Jax helped me write this, knowing what needed to be said and allowing the words to flow effortlessly from heart to paper. They are the co-creators of my writings, offerings, and life. I am not doing this life alone, and neither are you.

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