1981

I was chatting with someone a couple of days ago when, in the course of conversation, a concert in 1981 came up. 1981, I thought, I was four years old. The worst year in my short little life - nothing has come close to it in the thirty-five years since. I kept that to myself, of course, but it has been gnawing at me all weekend. Hell, it gnaws at me every year at this time of year. This is one of the big years, though. The 10, 15, 20, 25, 27, 30 and 35 year marks bring about fresh pain and the old familiar pain and introspection. I'm learning to not be surprised when I learn a new way the pain and loss presents itself.

It was on October 28th, 1981 that my dad died. He had an irregular heart beat and was told that he was going to need a pacemaker when he was about 40. Wrong. He needed it sooner. Much sooner. He was only 27 years old.

The year I turned 27 was hard as were the years when my brothers turned 27, too. Of course, all milestones were difficult. Starting Kindergarten, learning to ride a bike, Homecoming and Prom, High school graduation, wedding. He didn't get to meet any of his grandchildren. I think he would have made an awesome grandpa. But of course I do - he was my dad.

Then there were the years when my kids were four and five years old. Oh, God those were the worst. I've always told the boys that my daddy lives in Heaven. They didn't ask questions until about a year or so ago. Gavin asked how old my dad was when he died. He seemed to know 27 was kind of young. I held my breath, just waiting for him to ask me how old I was. It was several months later when he finally asked how old I was. You could see the information sinking into his head. I want to give him assurance that I'm not going to die but I can't. I tell him my dad had a sick heart and that I've had my heart looked at by a heart doctor and that it is good.

That December right after my dad died I was lying on the bottom bunk at night when I yelled out for my mom. Mom came in and sat on the edge of the bed and asked what I needed. "I'm going to ask you a question and you better tell me the truth!" She agreed and I asked her if Santa Claus was real. "No. He's not," she answered. I wailed, "You lied to me!"

Of course it was many, many years later that I realized how I put it all together. Sometime that summer or spring of 1981 we were sitting at the table in the kitchen eating dinner when I asked my parents if they were going to die. I don't remember exactly how I asked the question or what their exact response was but I do remember being assured that they were going to live for a very long time. Then my dad goes and dies a few months later. Not exactly what I would call a long time. If they lied to me about how long they would live, what else were they lying about?

This shouldn't come as a huge surprise but I have a problem with telling my kids Santa is real. So, I don't. I kind of ruined it for Ryan but I just couldn't do it. It felt like lying because, well, it was lying. I am totally fine with the tooth fairy, though. I like to pick and choose my lies.

Santa? Not real.

Tooth fairy? Look she left you a dollar.

What do I have in my mouth? Um... not candy.

It feels like the only big painful surprises now are when a young father dies. I know two such men who died this year. It brings it all back. It is amazing how quickly it floods back, visceral and thick. A parent at the boys bus stop sent out an email last year looking for support in a charity event that raises funding for cancer research. He had battled cancer a couple of times when his kids were really little. Just reading that made my heart constrict and my the backs of my eyes sting.

I try to not worry about who is next. I know it isn't rational but I feel like I put in my dues for crappy life experiences so I should get a pass for the foreseeable future.

I wonder how this 35th year will shape up. I am hoping for uneventful. I will even try to not complain about the gray hair I see slowly taking over my head. After all, not everyone has the privilege of getting gray hair. I will complain if I start getting wrinkles, though. Those can't be dyed.