Never Forget

/ Daddy

Dear Luciana,

I’m about to tell you something about me that Mommy didn’t even know. It’s not something I hid from her. It just never came up.

A couple of days ago it was April 16th. On the 16th, 19 years ago, a student at Virginia Tech murdered 32 innocent people.

That was the year I graduated college.

I wasn’t awake when it happened. I was skipping class, which was weird for me. I very rarely skipped class.

If you’ve ever seen the video of the gunshots being recorded from outside, that was right in front of the building I was supposed to be in.

You would think that would have kept me up at night. It didn’t. I don’t think my brain comprehended how close I was to dying. It didn’t feel real.

Mommy dying felt real. Mommy dying felt like I died. Virginia Tech was my brain finding the nearest exit.

I woke up to a bunch of missed messages asking if I was okay. I didn’t know anyone who died, but it was impossible not to know people who knew people.

Everything about that time was surreal. The entire world descended upon Blacksburg. If that sounds familiar to how I describe what life was like after Mommy died, it’s because it was.

National news teams were everywhere. People I knew were being interviewed on different news channels. Helicopters in the sky, cameras set up everywhere. It gave me my first glimpse into what life was like when the whole world is staring at you and all you want is the opposite.

Months later a scene in a TV show triggered what I now know was probably a panic attack. That was new to me. Nothing that traumatic had ever happened to me before.

Afterwards there were memorials for those who died. The community even came up with a slogan within the next couple of days.

Never forget.

Why am I telling you this now?

Because I forgot.

Never forget was the promise. I broke it without noticing.

I obviously have been through a lot the past couple of years. But even if my mind wasn’t a bowl of leftover oatmeal from all the grief I’ve been dealing with, I still probably would have forgotten.

The only reason I remembered is because I logged onto Facebook and saw a post about it yesterday. I never would have remembered on my own.

Does this mean I’m one day going to forget about the day Mommy died?

No.

Unless I become senile or have some traumatic brain injury.

And I’d have to top having your wife die when your daughter is 9 months old. Good luck, universe.

The year after April 16th happened was such a big deal to those who were there when it happened.

Then two years.

Then five.

Then ten.

Now all of a sudden it’s two decades later, and while people remember, people also move on with their lives.

And it’s the same with Mommy.

I’m still going to be grieving a decade later, and other people who knew Mommy will grieve, but it won’t be the same.

I wonder what the friends and family members were thinking three days ago. Do they still have the same pain as when it happened?

Do they still have nightmares?

Do they still have panic attacks?

Do they get to move on?

Besitos,

Daddy

The Arm Never Grows Back

/ Daddy

Dear Vanessa,

Last month was two years.

I didn’t do anything special for it. I don’t even know how to mark the day. It’s kind of weird we don’t have a word for the anniversary of someone’s death.

Or do we?

Jewish people have a word. It’s called Yahrzeit. But that’s it. I googled. No actual universal word for it. That’s weird.

I was going to post something sappy and upload it to Instagram because when I upload stuff to Instagram people buy the book. But in the end I didn’t do that. Not out of shame or anything like that. I just didn’t want to.

I was thinking about it though. I have said in the book multiple times that people don’t get to grieve the way they want.

For example. If I wanted to live stream myself crying at your gravestone and upload that to Instagram, I should be able to do that without being judged.

But people would judge it. They would think it’s cringe. Or self-absorbed. Or maybe even a little bit gross because in the end I’m posting so people will buy my book.

I think those people should go fuck themselves.

You are dead. If I want to be self-absorbed I should get to do that as long as I’m not hurting myself or anybody else.

But that’s not how it works.

So am I doing better after two years?

What does better mean?

If I chop off my arm, the arm never grows back. I’m never happy that I’m missing an arm. But I do get used to it.

Like, I’m not taking seven lorazepams a day. It would be disingenuous to say I’m in the same place I was when you died.

I’m taking things “day by day.” “One step at a time.” All of that cliche bullshit.

However, they are cliche for a reason.

They are cliche because those sayings work.

I know this because I’m still here.

Besitos,

Michael


I’ll Give You My Credit Card

/ Daddy

Dear Luciana,

A jackhammer was taking up residence in my brain when I picked you up from your Abuela. For the past three weeks I have been going into the office every single day. 45 minute commute each way all in traffic. I’m so tired.

But it was the day I always take you to the indoor playground with all the big slides. When I picked you up I asked you if you wanted to go. Hoping with all hope in the entire world that you would say no.

Of course you didn’t.

I want playgwound.

You sure? How about if I let you watch Mickey Mouse all night long?

Playgwound.

I’ll give you candy.

Playgwound.

I’ll let you stay up until midnight.

Playgwound.

I’ll give you my credit card.

PLLLAAAYGWWWWWOUND!!!!!!!!!!!

So we went to the playgwound. I mean playground. I thought I was going to hate myself for going.

But even with the migraine it was totally worth it.

While waiting in line you made friends with a 4 year old named Isabelle. You were obsessed with her. You followed her everywhere. Asked to hold her hand and play house. Made her hug all the teddy bears next to the slide.

I could barely keep my eyes open because the fluorescent lights were making me want to vomit.

It’s usually just us.

And only us.

Getting to see you play with someone in throwing distance of your age was so cute. After an hour I had to go. I was actually afraid I wasn’t even going to make it home before passing out.

You cried so much when I carried you out. I felt so bad.

The next morning I still had to go into the office. I was exhausted. I was tired, and normally I would just bitch and moan about my life sucking because Mommy is dead. But not this time.

This time I stayed present. I stayed off my phone. I stayed in the moment and watched you play.

It was amazing.

It was temporary.

But I did it.

Mommy would be proud.

Besitos,

Daddy.

Yay for the Good Review, Boo for the Dead Wife

/ Daddy

Dear Reader,

You want to know a very surreal feeling? Reading a review about a book you wrote to your daughter about your dead wife.

For indie authors to get an editorial review you have to pay for it. You submit your book to a couple of sites. Wait three months, and hope for a good review. You are not guaranteed a good review. The sites don’t publish any statistics, but plenty of books bomb.

So when the first one came back it felt so strange. Seeing my words coming from someone else’s mouth. I immediately wanted to vomit.

Look, I’m glad I got good reviews. Very happy. It would be dumb to put all this work into a book and secretly want it to suck. As much as I hate myself I’m not THAT stupid.

It just goes back to what I wrote in the book. This book wouldn’t exist if Vanessa was alive. And she is not. The book is only here because she is dead.

So yay for the good review. Boo for the dead wife.

… and mommy.

No, I’m not forgetting Luciana. Sheesh.

Besitos,

Michael

P.S.

Funny side note. WordPress does prompts for people who write blogs. Today’s prompt was “What book could you read over and over again?”

No, I would not pick my own book. Y’all are so self-absorbed.

Where Is the Stop Button

/ Daddy

Dear Luciana,

So today I realized something. At the end of the book, I wrote about how when you were cranky, I would flip you upside down to get you to stop crying. I can’t do that anymore.

I don’t even remember the last time I did it. It must have been months ago. You still love being carried, that hasn’t changed. But I can no longer flip you upside down and let your legs dangle around my neck. You are too big.

Why are you doing that to me? Why are you growing so quickly? Do you know you cause me an existential crisis every time you do something like this? In about four months you are going from daycare to preschool. In the past two months you’ve gone from barely talking to talking nonstop. I need to take some Lorazepam.

Where is the stop button?

Besitos,

Daddy

When Mommy Means I Miss You

/ Daddy

Dear Vanessa,

I wrote a letter in the book about how when Luciana called your mother Mommy, I felt a certain way about it. Well, that was over six months ago at this point. Although it feels like yesterday. Time has no meaning after you died.

Luciana says Mommy all the time now. She has called me Mommy. She has called your mother Mommy. Even random people get called Mommy.

I finally figured out what she is saying.

When she calls someone Mommy, it is usually when she is upset. It is usually what happens when someone is leaving. When she calls someone Mommy, it means I miss you.

I hate it.

Before you call me a Grinch, I am allowed to hate it. I know it might seem cute. I know some people might think it is a connection to you.

Nope.

I hate it.

I want you to be Mommy. I do not want Mommy to mean me, or your mother, or some sweet little toddler translation into something meaningful and profound.

I want Mommy to mean you. And only you.

Does that make me cranky? Probably.

I am not going to correct her. I have learned that lesson. But I will nudge her in the right direction. I will continuously give her positive reinforcement when you are called Mommy.

You will always be Mommy. No matter how cute the alternative is.

Besitos,

Michael

Reason #5 to Read I’m Only a Good Daddy Because Your Mommy Died

/ Daddy

Dear Reader,

My mom liked the book. And before you go “well duh, of course your mom is going to like the book,” I talk shit about my mom in this book.

Nobody escapes the arrows in this book. Not my mom, not Vanessa’s mom, not even Luciana, and of course not me. The closest is Vanessa, but I explain why in the book.

My mom still liked the book after reading it. Most books about grief, everyone close to them is always perfect. They help out so much. They never make mistakes. The only people who get crapped on at all are usually people who have no stakes in getting ripped apart. Like insurance people or bystanders who nobody cares if you say crappy things about them.

That is just not how things work.

People are human. People mean well. People still suck. And acting like everyone is there for you and never messes up is not my experience. Just because people mean well doesn’t mean they don’t bring their own biases into how you are supposed to grieve.

My mom still liked the book. In fact, she gave me an even bigger compliment. She called it compelling. That was after reading about a huge fight I had with her.

That’s the type of book you are getting if you read this. I promise a certain form of honesty, and the book delivers on that.

Besitos,

Michael

Catnip for 6 Year Olds

/ Daddy

Dear Vanessa,

This is proof that Luciana got your genes. She is such an extrovert. We were at the indoor playground and she becomes friends with literally everyone. I swear she is catnip for 6 year olds.

She had been playing with this one kid for over an hour when they wanted to go play in the big part of the playground. The 6 year old asked me if she could take her on her own.

Immediately my insides started to retract into a tiny ball of anxiety.

Luciana is about to turn three. I had all the exit doors blocked. What’s the worst that can happen? She goes play by herself with a random friend. For the first time ever.

Don’t tell me the answer.

They were gone for maybe 10 minutes. It felt like 10 years.

She came back. No bruises. Still happy. Pretty sure she hadn’t licked the floor or anything like that. Yay?

Boooooooooo!

Where is the stop clock? When you died she could only crawl backwards. Now she has made more friends in one day than I have in the past decade.

You’d be proud.

Besitos,

Michael

One Ear at a Time

/ Daddy

Dear Vanessa,

I’m always going to remember when Luciana got her ears pierced for a very unusual reason. Her right ear was pierced before you died, and the left ear was pierced afterward.

We went at 9 months because if we waited any longer the doctor said you should wait until 4 years or they will pull at the earring. Nobody in my family got their ears pierced that young, but I knew everyone in your family did. So even if I felt weird about it I wasn’t going to say anything.

After the first time it was done I almost fainted. We all said it looked perfect. But I noticed the left ear was a centimeter off.

The doctor was confident that if we take the earring out and wait 3 weeks the ear will heal. The ear did heal. I did not.

Going back there with one earring and no mommy was so surreal. I can’t even imagine what the doctor was thinking. Part of the reason the earring was off the first time was because I didn’t hold her down hard enough and she was very squirmy.

I bear hugged her this time. The snap of the earring machine went. Luciana cried for maybe 10 seconds. Your mother and I cried for the whole car ride home.

You were so meticulous cleaning her ear. There was no way she was going to get an infection. It was one of the first realizations that I no longer have you to help me with these types of things. It was all on me.

And it’s still all on me.

Besitos,

Michael

My Favorite Line In The Book

/ Daddy

The following contains spoilers from the book.

Dear Reader,

My favorite line in the book is actually the last line in the book. This is actually a spoiler. Which is also weird to say about a grief memoir. My wife isn’t coming back from the dead. She isn’t a vampire. But the last line is really the emotional coda of the entire book, so if you care about that sort of thing, don’t read ahead.

The first letter I write to Luciana is about a panic attack after I forget her Mommy’s favorite flower. I do end up remembering it, and I write:

Your Mommy’s favorite flower was pink peonies.

Yay, I finally remembered, now what do I win? Existential dread.

The last letter in the entire book is a letter to Luciana when she is fifteen years old, in the future.

The last line in the entire book is:

Mommy’s favorite flower is pink peonies. I remembered.

With only a minor hint of existential dread.

The grammar is on purpose. When I first lost Vanessa, I talked about her in the past tense. But her favorite flower will always be pink peonies, no matter how long she has been gone.

Also, if you look at the cover of the book, there is a pink peony on both the front and the back cover. For that exact reason.

Besitos,

Michael