The Sunday I Didn’t Call: a reflection on grief, guilt, forgiveness, and learning to hold love differently.

Nine years ago, I did not make the phone call because I was so exhausted.

It was a Sunday night and I felt overwhelmed by life. I chose not to call my parents that night. Although we had so much to share, the kids were finishing up homework, and we were getting ready for the week. I would call on Monday.

The phone rang Monday afternoon. It was Mom, sharing the news of Dad’s passing. Sudden. Shocking. Me, on the floor screaming.

For the last nine years, I have carried around the exhaustion of that Sunday. Sure, the grief lingers. I miss Dad so much. However, it is the decision not to call on Sunday that has overwhelmed me. 

It is the sort of exhaustion that leaves you always striving for more to prove something to someone. It is the sort of exhaustion in which you judge yourself for the decisions you made. It is the sort of exhaustion that is shame and guilt and anger, anger at myself for being selfish and not making that phone call. It is the sort of exhaustion that has quietly hung on. 

In the nine years that I have been grieving this loss, the day that I did not make the phone call always seems a bit harder than the day that I heard the news.

Yesterday, the day I did not call nine years ago, I realized that I was exhausted from carrying the weight of this day. Marking each year since his passing with failure. It has been heavy to carry.

Through the tears of the morning, Chris held me and nurtured my sadness of self and of loss. He knows I carry this story and does his best to talk me through it each year.

As I finished getting ready for the day, I realized that I was ready to let this weight go. I was ready to stop judging myself through the grief. I realized that I can walk into a new story of that day. I can be done with this. I will always miss Dad. He was an amazing man. I see him in Mom, in his grandchildren, in my brother, in his brother, and even in my husband. It was time for me to move on and allow his spirit to be around me, void of judgment, void of failure.

As I pulled out of the driveway, headed towards my day in Old Orchard Beach at Beachology, I opened the sunroof, turned the music up and cried for all that is. Joy streamed out through the tears. Joy in how we hold him as hawk energy. Joy in what he brings us in spirit. Joy for all that Dad was and still is.

As I drove down a winding, tree-lined road, I saw movement to my right. A hawk flying through an opening, through the trees, crossing my path at my sightline. Clear, strong, so close that I could see details of his red tail. Dad - protector, leader, visionary, always reminding us of perspective. 

Today, my heart is open and grateful for my time with Dad. The exhaustion of a decision made nine years ago sits behind me. I now hold the beauty of this life in a way that he would be proud. Love you Dad.