Throughout the course of my life, it was always to make my dad proud, to admire the strength that I got from him, and to grow up to be the woman he wanted me to be. Everything I did was to prove to him that he raised a strong woman who could fend for herself. Which, in my opinion, he did a pretty damn good job. That's not to say that my mom didn't help in that, because she did of course. For some reason, I've always been a daddy's girl and his opinion of me mattered so much more than anyone else, including my mom.
I remember the last thing I said to my dad, I said, "Okay dad, I'm leaving to go back to mom's house, I will be back in the morning. Call me if you need anything. I love you so much." I remember he looked at me with sleepy eyes and a grumble, my heart broke watching him so weak in that hospital bed not being able to do anything but lay there and endure the pain. My dad was the strongest person I've ever known. Never once in his 8 years of the cancer battle did I hear him complain. Not a "why is this happening to me?" or "I can't believe this is happening to me." Which speaks volumes for the kind of man he was, which is maybe why his approval was so important to me.
Even though he is no longer here, his approval is still very important to me. Whenever I'm making an important decision, I think to myself, "what would dad say about this?" Most of the time, I end up making a decision based on what I think he'd want me to do. Then, other times, I do something regardless of how I think he'd feel, because it's no secret that we didn't always agree on things. Which is okay, nobody agrees on everything all the time.
I think about my dad everyday, and everyday I struggle to get out of bed. I struggle to get ready, make it through the day, and just keep going.
When I was little, my brother and I would switch weekends between my mom's house and my dad's house. On weekends that we were at dad's house, it was always a rule that no matter what you ALWAYS make your bed before you leave your room. If you didn't then you'd get an ear full about it. As a kid, I always seemed to come up with a good excuse, and every time he marched me back into my room and explained the value of making the bed before you left the room. Eventually I caught on that it would be much easier to just make the bed before I left than it would be to try and get away with not making it. Now, when I was at mom's that didn't ever happen. My bed was always in shambles, and my room was always a wreck.
Looking back, dad instilled so many valuable life lessons. Since I moved out, every single day I have made my bed before I have left my room, and every single day I think, dad would be proud. I have to give myself credit for the little things, or I wouldn't make it out of bed in the first place. Grieving looks different on everyone, and I've always struggled with anxiety and depression, so losing him was like an anchor got tied to my ankle and I got shoved overboard.
I remember the morning he passed. I was in a deep sleep, and all of a sudden sat straight up in my bed, wide awake, looking at the clock. It was 5:09am. In my mind, I knew I didn't have to be at Tracy's until 8am, so I knew I wasn't late. There was this gut feeling as I laid back down, and my gut told me, "TAYLOR, GET UP RIGHT NOW, DO NOT GO BACK TO SLEEP." So I listened, I got up and started getting ready. My Fitbit was in the bathroom charging, and my phone was in my room. I was starting to put my makeup on when I picked up my Fitbit. As soon as I picked it up, it started vibrating, meaning I was getting a phone call. I looked at it, "Rhonda is calling.." Immediately I ran into my room and answered the phone. It was never a good sign that Rhonda was up before 6am on a Saturday. My voice shallow, "..hello.." then Rhonda said, "can you come over?" I said, "I'm on my way."
I scrambled to get dressed, throwing whatever I could find on. Raced down the stairs, grabbed my keys and my phone, took off out the door. I'm honestly shocked I even remembered to lock the door behind me. My gut told me he was gone, my heart didn't want to believe it. I probably went way too fast the whole way over there. My only goal at that moment was to get there as fast as I could. I slammed my car into park, grabbed my purse, ran into the house, dropped everything, and ran into the front living room. My heart is racing, and adrenaline has kicked in. I look at my aunts, tears fill my eyes, they look at me with tears in theirs and shake their heads. If Rhonda wasn't there to catch me I would have fell to the ground. My knees went weak, everything was numb, I yelled out, "NO!!!"
The tears kept coming, they seemed to go on for hours. As I looked at my dad laying in that bed, no longer alive, my heart felt so broken and so lost. The hospice nurse told me I could sit with him and talk to him if I wanted to. I talked to him for hours, laid with him and cried into his lifeless arm. I couldn't believe my daddy was gone, it couldn't be possible. The strongest man I've ever known is gone. He's right in front of me, but he's gone. Every time I thought that I had composed myself enough to get up and talk to my aunt, I started crying.
We waited awhile to call the funeral home in case my uncle or grandparents wanted to say their final goodbyes. Well, I was laying with him that entire time. My aunt's practically had to pull me away from his bedside. I didn't want to go, I didn't want him to go. I wanted him to come back, and be here with us. I had to keep telling myself that he was no longer in any pain, and that he didn't want to be in pain anymore.
When my dad was first diagnosed with cancer, it was 2010 and I was a Sophomore in high school. He told my brother and I on Christmas, which was a very difficult thing to hear. He didn't tell us to hurt us, it was just a moment when all three of us were together. He told us he was going to fight it, and his doctors saw a good outcome. Months of Chemo and Radiation treatments later, and he was in remission. A few years went by, and it had come back. Surgery to take it out, more chemo, more radiation. Again, in remission. Fast forward a few years from that, and this time it's not as promising. Engulfing his rib, they decided to take it out, and put mesh where his rib would be. When they went in to do the surgery, they noticed it had spread to his diaphragm, which at that point there's nothing they could do in terms of removal. To say I was livid is an understatement. Dad just said, "okay, what do we do now?"
So I knew for 8 years there was a chance of him not winning this battle, but we were all so headstrong and determined to help him beat this. And for 7 years, it worked. The final year was probably the hardest year. Dad was losing his strength, trying different chemo, since he'd reached his lifetime limit of the other one on the first rodeo. Oncology appointments constantly, lots of experimenting. They offered an immunotherapy trail, and dad jumped at the opportunity. So he did that for awhile, until the pain became so bad that he lost feeling in his legs. After an ER visit, and countless hours of him sitting in the same wheelchair he was admitted in, they discovered that the steroids they used at the hospital helped with the inflammation, and it was like nothing ever happened.
This was great news, because dad wasn't in as much pain anymore, and that's all he ever wanted. Pain management. Every year we go on our annual camping/fishing trip to Wickiup Reservoir over Memorial Day weekend. This year, we feared he wouldn't be able to go, but he was determined. Wilson came up from Alabama to go with us, and our family friends (the Douglas's) were on board as well. Game on!
This trip took everything dad had, and everyone at camp was helping him. Medication management, getting into the boat, getting him safely to the tent, and his chair. Getting him food, and drinks, and anything he needed. Now, he was still capable of doing this himself with a little bit of a struggle, but we could all see how much pain he was in, and didn't want to add to that pain. I remember the last morning we were there, we packed up camp per usual, and dad sat in the truck since we had packed away his chair. I ran to the Douglas's camp site and asked if one of them could come take a picture of the three of us by the boat. Dad recently got his boat wrapped, which he'd been talking about for years, and I wanted all of us to have a picture together next to it. I remember Wilson getting upset with me for wanting to make dad get out of the truck when he was in so much pain for one stupid picture.
That one "stupid" picture is the last picture that we have with all three of us. Even though dad was in some pain, I'm so happy that I didn't listen to Wilson, and asked dad anyways. Of course, daddy's girl always gets her way 😏.
I will end with this, everyone fights their own silent battles. What they share with you is most likely just the tip of the iceberg. Take care when someone opens up to you about their struggles. Everyone is dealing with the same hell, just different devils. I love my daddy to the moon and back a million times, and I miss him every single day. I cry in the store, in my car, in the shower, when I'm doing mundane things, I cry ALL THE TIME. That's okay, everyone heals differently. It will never stop hurting, I know that for a fact. I will miss him at my wedding, I will miss him when I have children, and I will miss him every single day before and after that. Knowing that he won't be here to watch me grow up more, and to watch my kids grow up hurts the most.
I'm determined to make him proud, in everything I do.
Forever and Always,
Daddy's Little Girl 💜
