Shine a Light

On March 24, 2020 By seeyabubIn Mental Illness2 Comments

On most evenings (and much to my own personal dread on the cold ones), I take our golden retriever puppy, Penelope, for a walk around our neighborhood. Slowly but surely, Penny is figuring out how to walk like a respectable dog.

Let me rephrase that—very slowly, but surely nonetheless.

More and more, Penny is growing to like her walks. At first, she was always a bit too anxious and couldn’t enjoy the walks because of her nervousness. Paige and I didn’t give up, and after many failed attempts and one fantastic puppy training camp later (thanks Rhino Kennels!), Penny is getting more and more accustomed to her nighttime strolls around our corner of suburbia. She usually gives me a few excited jumps as we begin our walks together (even though I’m pretty sure our dog trainer told us not to let her do this but it really is pretty adorable—sorry Rhino Kennels!). She’s growing more interested in sniffing cars and flowers and fire hydrants along the way. And she has really enjoyed stopping at either of the ponds in our neighborhood if there happens to be a pack of geese or ducks that she can watch intently.

But even with all her progress, Penny still gets a bit nervous. Paige and I laugh about Penny’s nervous “head dip” that she does when she sees something she doesn’t recognize approaching in the distance. I can always tell when she’s spotted something coming her way. If she sees an approaching person, dog, or UWO (unidentified walking object), Penny’s pace slows ever so slightly. Her walking becomes much more deliberate and controlled. Locked in on the figure in the distance, Penny lowers her head slightly and hunches her little puppy shoulders (do puppies have shoulders?!). As we get closer and closer, Penny’s hunch gets lower and lower. Her walking slows even more until, finally, we reach the object. She either lowers her hunch all the way to the ground and stays in a submissive position, or if she’s feeling friendly, she investigates, jumps, and wags her tail.

Most of the time, I laugh at Penny—that is, until I spot something that I can’t identify on the horizon and get a little nervous myself.

My work schedule typically requires that I walk Penny in the evening, and the fantastic winter weather and daily 37-minutes of sunshine that we seem to get in southwestern Ohio at this time of year often require that I walk Penny in the dark. For the most part, our neighborhood is very well lit, but there are some stretches that tend to be a bit darker than others.

A few evenings ago, Penny and I were walking together in the cold when I noticed the familiar hunching behavior of my four-legged companion. Realizing that she had spotted something up ahead, I looked up and spotted something in the distance. I spotted it too, and after a few seconds of quick mental processing, I had identified three possible things that the darkened object on the sidewalk up ahead could have been:

A small, toothy-little creature that was prepared to chew all of our ankles off,
A carnivorous, vicious, prehistoric-style bird that would peck through my ribcage and ravage all of my internal organs, or
A piece of trash.

Naturally, I chose the most realistic option of the three.

It was definitely the bird.

If you know me, you know that I have a particularly strong fear of any creature from the avian realm. I’ve got this whole ornithophobia thing down to a fear-inducing science of pure terror. When I was a child, my Dad used to torment me at the county fair by gleefully dragging me through the chicken barn as I shrieked, bawled, and prayed to my God and any others who might be listening that none of these foul fowls would decide to jump on me and peck my eyes out. When I visit Home Depot, I am that guy who ducks (no pun intended) anytime a bird flies down from the warehouse-style ceiling (WE ARE INSIDE! WHY IS A BIRD INSIDE?!). And one time while on vacation with our closest friends a few years ago, a seagull attacked me and stole the last bite of my delicious Cuban sandwich as I screamed for intervention from the Almighty. I still can’t eat a Cuban sandwich without feeling my heart rate increase. Thanks, bird.

On the night in question, as Penny and I both crept towards the vulture-like bird on the sidewalk in front of us, we each grew a bit more anxious. I could see Penny’s head go lower and lower and lower towards the ground as she slowed her walk, and I felt myself preparing for a bit of a run in the event that this bird did what I knew it was going to do (namely, kill me and my dog in a violent flurry of feathers and squawking).

A light in the distance flickered, and as we got closer and closer I decided to take out my phone and turn on the flashlight so I could look into the devilish eyes of the murderous beast. And once I cast the light up ahead of us, I had a clear vision of our dreaded enemy.

A mangled pizza box.

(But wait….there could still be a bird inside the pizza box ready to fly out and peck our eyeballs out, right?!)

That’s right. The fear-inducing figure in the distance turned out to be nothing more than someone’s old, empty pizza box that had likely blown from a garbage can down the street.

I was relieved, and so was Penny—although she really wishes there would have been a slice of pepperoni with extra cheese left for her. But it wasn’t until we were able to shine a light on the shadow in the distance and realize what it was before we could be free from our anxiety and fear.

And in many ways, I think that mental illness works the same way.

I firmly believe that mental illness is an enemy that, when left in the dark, grows stronger, more powerful, and more all-encompassing day by day. I also believe that, when talked about and brought out into the light, we diminish the stronghold that mental illness can have on our minds and on our lives. With each confession that we are struggling or hurting, we slowly strip mental illness of its power and fight against the culture of silence where it finds its control.

When I reflect and think back on my Dad’s struggle, I can see this playing out in the rearview mirror as I desperately wish I had paid more attention to it. For the longest time, my Dad refused to shine a light on his own depression, but instead chose to bury it deep below the surface—but his motivations weren’t egocentric in the slightest. My Dad was not a man who cared about image or his own ego, and I am confident that the reasons that my Dad felt he couldn’t talk about his depression were motivated by a fear of disappointment—more than most, he was afraid he would let people down.

My Dad was a fixer. A builder. A carpenter, electrician, and maintenance technician by both trade and pure interest, and there was rarely a thing my Dad couldn’t do. My Dad was the guy that everyone called. If you needed a ceiling fan fixed or a shower tiled or a deck built, my Dad was the first call for many. His talents, as I’ve written about before, were abundant, and now that he’s gone, I think I’m even more in awe of what he could do. He was an artist, a craftsman of the highest order, obsessed with detail, quality, and perfection. But above all, he loved being able to make others happy with his talent. And by golly, it was genuine.

Above all, I know the motive for why my Dad helped people. It wasn’t about showing off those talents. It was never about boasting. It was because he had a fixer’s heart, and he liked being able to help others. More than anything, I think my Dad had a deep fear of disappointing people.

This fear of disappointing people was one of his most admirable qualities—but it was also the same fear that, left unchecked, led to him into periods of suffering in isolation and loneliness. Among his many great qualities, my Dad was also dependable beyond belief. If he told you he would be somewhere, he was there. If he told you he was going to fix something, it would be fixed. He held himself to a higher standard than anyone else, and that higher standard could create pressure that was difficult to reckon with. I believe that my Dad had an irrational fear that admitting he had depression and that he was suffering would cause people to think they couldn’t depend on him any longer—and I’m confident that it was that fear, more than anything, that kept him from talking about his illness.

It’s a fear that wasn’t unique to my Dad. It’s a mindset of silence that, unfortunately, is all too pervasive for those who are hurting, suffering, and struggling with mental illness.

When I reflect on my Dad’s story and think deeply about the moments when his depression controlled him most severely, it’s hard not to think of the scary and frightening moments. Those moments when, fueled by his depression, he would inexplicably leave without a trace and runaway, abandoning the home where all the comfort he ever needed lived.

But time gives the benefit of great perspective and holism, and I can simultaneously reflect on the moments immediately thereafter when he would come home, admit his defeat, and seek help. Those moments when Dad would return and when we would talk about his depression, dragging the monster that scared him out into the light to recognize it for what it was and to emphasize, strongly, that there was a path forward—to encourage and show Dad that he could manage and control this—were moments of unbelievable growth. We would recognize Dad’s depression and not deny the fact that it existed. He would visit the doctor, and be vulnerable about what was going on, and chart a path forward through medication and other treatments.

And then, with his depression called out into the open, Dad would get better. It wasn’t easy. It was never a “snap your fingers” type of treatment. It took weeks, sometimes months, for Dad to get better—but in nearly every situation, Dad did get better. And for a while (sometimes a long, long while), things would be at their best. And Dad would be at his best—a conquering fighter who would refuse to let his life be controlled by a powerful, dangerous illness.

It would be those moments when Dad’s depression was out in the open amongst our family in which he would feel most at ease—most comfortable with who he was at his core. During the times when Dad felt he could admit that he was struggling and he could avoid the shame of feeling like he needed to hide his illness, I think my Dad was truly at his happiest, his most content, and his most peaceful state.

Doesn’t it work that way for so many out there who are hurting and suffering from mental illness?

We all harbor different fears. Some of us are afraid of heights. Others are afraid of social situations. The smart people are afraid of birds. But then there are those deeper, emotionally-laden fears that are hard, even embarrassing, to talk about. Our fears of rejection. Our fears of solitude. Of financial inadequacy. Of pain and abuse. Of insecurity. And yes, of disappointment.

When we grow fearful, we often feel we have to wear a mask. And when we wear a mask, we are unnecessarily burdened by the shame of feeling that we have to hide how we feel. We shy away from honestly sharing our fears and insecurities, and as we do, those same fears and insecurities grow and grow and grow, eventually growing to a point that they take over our ability to function regularly.

But it’s the immediate relief that any of us who have suffered from mental illness can all relate to—the “shine a light” moment. That moment when we admit we are struggling while simultaneously taking a deep sigh of relief, knowing that we’ve identified the culprit—mental illness—and realizing that the enemy is exposed. There’s a physical response when we admit we are hurting—our shoulders relax, the tightness in our chest disappears, and it literally feels as if a weight has been lifted from our bodies. Think of it like a pressure valve or a cork in a bottle of champagne. All the pressure continues to build and build and build, and the moment that cork goes pop!, we feel an immediate relief of the pressure. Everything bubbles out and—if you’ve got a good bottle—life tastes really, really good in those first, fresh moments after you’ve opened the bottle.

I think we feel the most relief in those moments immediately after we shed the mask of shame and honestly talk about our fears, insecurities, and feelings. But for many who suffer and especially my Dad, as time wears on, we tend to slowly but surely put that mask back on. Over time, when we aren’t making our mental health a priority, we fall back into the old, comfortable patterns that led us down the wrong road in the first place. The less we talk about how we feel, the less light we shine on the enemy—and the less light we shine on the enemy, the more powerful it grows. And then, before we know it, the goodness that we felt in those immediate moments of relief completely retreats into the shadows. There we are again, stuck in the same place of guilt and inexplicable darkness that we were in before. The mask becomes comfortable again and seems to be a better alternative to being vulnerable.

Dear readers, I lost my Dad to suicide because of this, and I can promise you, there is nothing comfortable about not talking about our fears and feelings. It is a dead-end road, and one we must not pursue.

That’s why we have to talk, and we have to talk regularly. Yes, we must talk in the midst of our illness and in the immediate aftermath, but we also need to keep that conversation going as we begin to feel better, and yes, as we may begin to feel worse. We need to make vulnerability an everyday practice that’s as regular and accepted as brushing our teeth, washing our hands, or combing our hair. I confidently believe that so many of our real problems associated with mental illness are amplified and worsened when we don’t discuss them with others. I wish my Dad had felt comfortable enough to do more of that—and I wish that you would do more of it, too.

If you’re reading this post and you find yourself suffering from mental illness or suicidal ideations, I know that it can feel daunting and inescapable—but I promise you that the power mental illness holds over your life will dissipate when you shine a light on it and when you talk. You don’t have to talk to everyone. You don’t have to broadcast it on social media or in front of a crowd of thousands. But talk to someone, anyone. Shine a light by finding the people you trust most in your life and sharing your fear and worries with them. You’ll be shocked at how good it feels to shine the light on your mental illness—how good it feels to relieve the pressure, pop the cork, and let the feelings bubble out. And you’ll be amazed at how quickly the grip of mental illness is loosened.

It is no secret that, as I write this post, we are living in scary, confusing, fear-laden, and intensely unpredictable times. Unfortunately, the COVID-19 outbreak has taken a society that was already smoldering with fear and poured gasoline on that fire. If we were fearful a month ago, it’s likely that those feelings have grown much, much worse in the past days as we scramble to understand what is happening across the globe. As I pray for those who are hurting, there has been a heavy weight on my heart recently. It’s a heavy weight for those who are hurting and suffering from mental illness. It’s a worry that the mental illness they suffer from will grow even more powerful because of the unintentional effects of our needed physical isolation. Everyone is hurting, but those who suffer from mental illness may feel even less in control of their lives than they normally do.

In my heart of hearts, I’m convinced that there will be good that comes from this crisis. No, I don’t want it to happen, but yes, I believe that the Gospel is meant to invade dark places. Yes, there has been so much good happening in the midst of this difficult chapter. Individuals are more cognizant of the impact of their actions upon their communities and the world. Moments of generosity, I believe, are more abundant than they were previously. Without the convenience of a meal at a restaurant, a workout at the gym, or a movie with friends, I believe we’ve all grown to appreciate the little things that, for so long, we’ve taken for granted. Maybe we all needed a bit of a reminder that, above all and even with its many difficulties, life is grand and beautiful, complex yet lovingly simple.

At the same time, however, our worst fears and our primal instincts for self-preservation have amplified in ways we never imagined. Although outnumbered by the good, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake the image of two grown adults in a fisticuffs over a pack of Charmin at a Walmart as long as I live. When I go to the grocery store, I see the panic in people’s eyes that, when the world is right, just shouldn’t be there—and, unfortunately, I’ve felt it in my own heart. And I can’t help but think that, as much fear as we are seeing exhibited outwardly by so many people, the fear that people aren’t exhibiting is even worse, even greater, and even more destructive if it ever bubbles to the surface.

So if you are hurting or struggling from mental illness that you can’t explain, I beg you to not let these times of isolation prevent you from talking with someone. Find that trusted loved one or friend, call them, and just ask them if you can share your heart. Talk with them about your fears. Not everyone will be receptive, but I promise you that someone will. More than ever before, reach out to a counselor, therapist, or psychiatrist who can help bring those feelings to the surface in a way that is redemptive. And if the thought of suicide has crossed your mind, I beg you to call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or 1-800-273-TALK. Never, never let those thoughts linger. Never underestimate their power. Do something, in this moment, that will protect you, your families, and the generations to come. The world is better because you’re in it—promise me you’ll be here.

And lastly, for those fellow believers, I beg you to talk with God. Yes, He knows all, but there is great power in shining a light on our biggest fears and concerns and letting God know that we need help. Reveal the depths of your heart to the One who can reach down, provide solace, and restore peace. And find comfort in talking with him regularly because, the more we talk, the more comfortable and easy it becomes to be vulnerable—which, after all, is how God created us to be.

Together, we can create a culture of light-shiners who refuse to let our hurts grow and gain power in the dark. Now, more than ever, it’s time for all of us to start shining a light.

And please, dear neighbors, pick up your pizza boxes. Poor Penny and I can’t take it any longer.

Dad, My heart hurts deeply when I think about how fearful you likely felt throughout your life. It breaks my heart to know that you experienced such shame which prevented you from reaching out and talking to those of us who loved you. Dad, I just want you to know that we were never, ever disappointed in you. No matter how sick you might have been, and even during the times when your mental illness led you to leave us, we were never disappointed in the man you were. And now, I hope you are resting in the peace of Heaven and allowing God to remind you, daily, that He was never disappointed either. Your life continues to guide me and remind me of the importance of sharing my feelings with others, and although I don’t always do it perfectly, I’m grateful that you’re still parenting me and teaching me daily. I carry you with me every single day, Dad. Thank you, Dad, for showing courage in all those moments that matter most. I can’t wait to tell you, face to face, how proud I am of you for fighting the way you did. Until that glorious reunion, seeya Bub.

“Help carry each other’s burdens. In this way you will follow Christ’s teachings.” Galatians 6:2 (GW)

Carving

On December 18, 2019December 18, 2019 By seeyabubIn HolidaysLeave a comment

“Watch it, now…you get a finger mixed in with that ham and you’ll ruin Christmas.”

It was always, always Dad’s job to carve at the holiday. Growing up, my Mom always hosted a lot of our family get togethers around special holidays, and any good family get together usually involved some type of carved meat. I remember delicious turkeys at Thanksgiving, a fantastic ham on Easter, and both ham and roast beef on Christmas Eve. For every holiday she hosted, Mom would spend hours and days preparing all kinds of treats and delicious goodies, and Dad and I were always ready to eat. Dad and I weren’t much help to Mom when it came to these extravagant yet quaint family gatherings, mainly because Dad wasn’t much of a talent in the kitchen.

Wait, let me try that again. Most anything Dad did in the kitchen was disastrous. We are talking next-level, epic kitchen ineptitude. For a man who was competent in so many things, it was amazing to see him fail so spectacularly in the kitchen. I once saw the man burn soup—how do you burn soup?!

But Dad did have one special skill he could deliver around the holidays. The man was always a solid meat carver. I think it was because carving a ham resembled more of a construction project (his wheelhouse) than a culinary test. Every year a few minutes before our family would arrive for a holiday celebration, I would hear the familiar, sawing ziiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrr of my parents’ electric carving knife. On and off and on again the knife would go as Dad would conquer a ham or turkey, creating as many slices as possible for our family to enjoy. The carving knife, a gift from their wedding and a marvel in craftsmanship by Black & Decker, had vanquished many a Christmas ham and Thanksgiving turkey in its years of service to our family. That knife is older than I am—solid work, Black & Decker!

My family always thankful that Christmas typically brought with it a ham that was given to my Dad. Dad was fortunate to work for caring and thoughtful companies for most of his career, and his employers always provided a Christmas ham that Dad would proudly bring home to store in our freezer. As a kid, I probably didn’t appreciate what a considerate gesture this was for the families that had spent so much time, sweat, and energy working in physically demanding and strenuous jobs. Now, I have a deep appreciation for it—mainly because in my entire career after college no one has ever just given me a ham! I’m lucky if I can even get the kind of pens I like to write with!

But every year, my family was thankful that Dad’s employers provided this special blessing to our family, and Mom had the great honor of cooking it—and her culinary talent would always shine through. Mom was, is, and always will be a magician and artist in the kitchen. Another thing that you fail to appreciate until you’re grown is the cooking acumen of a parent, and I definitely didn’t give my Mom the credit she earned in the kitchen until I started cooking myself. Now that I know how much work goes into preparing a simple dinner, I appreciate the ease my Mom displayed whipping up a full meal almost every night of the week. Dad was better at appreciating Mom’s cooking. One time, Dad and I were talking about Mom’s talent, and I remember Dad saying “You know, growing up I never thought I would be able to find someone who could cook as good as my Mom; and then I met your Mom, and she could cook even better!” Dad always appreciated Mom’s cooking, and I know he loved it around Christmastime.

Usually starting days before the family gathering, Mom would meticulously pour over the preparations and her menu, timing out when she would need to start prepping dishes, when dishes would need to go in the oven, and fretting over where she was going to store all of this food until everyone arrived. Even though Mom would always get a little overwhelmed and worried by the volume of things she had to prepare, it always worked out in the end and everything came together even better than she had imagined. She worried about holiday gatherings because she cared about everyone so much—and those tremendous holiday gatherings we had are a reminder of how Mom showed her love to us.

Dad’s contributions to our holiday festivities were largely mechanical, and I thank God each day that he wasn’t responsible for the cooking (remember that whole burnt soup thing?). Usually, Mom would task Dad with wrapping the presents (he had the wrapping skill of a fourth-generation origami artist), where he would camp in front of the television with rolls of colored paper and enough tape to fully encase a forty-three car locomotive. Dad also had to set up the card table in the family room so we had enough spots for everyone, and it was usually Dad’s job to brush out our family dog so she looked even fluffier than usual when everyone arrived.

And then, just before the festivities began, Dad would pull the electric knife out of the tattered-and-worn box and get to carving. Standing over the oven range in our compact family kitchen, Dad would whir away with the jigsawing blades, removing slice after slice with the precision of a brain surgeon, placing it delicately on a large, silver platter in an overly-intricate pattern.

As a kid, I was always a bit intimated as I watched Dad carve away at the ham. There seemed to be a true art to it because Dad would concentrate deeply on the work in front of him. As he did with most every task he approached, Dad was a fanatic for detail. Through this oval-rimmed glasses, he would move his head from side to side, locating unbeknownst spots in the oven-baked ham in which one cut would produce the most amount of meat. By the end of the process, Dad would lift out the ham bone from the roasting pan, and I would be amazed at how little meat was left behind. Mom would always tell Dad that he did a great job, and then she would wonder whether or not there would be enough for everyone….even though we seemingly ate ham for the next four days at home. There was always enough, but Mom wanted to make sure that the holiday was perfect for everyone.

I appreciate that now. I appreciate her thoughtfulness. And I appreciated my Dad’s ability to carve a ham. Especially when my Mom came down the stairs in 2012 and said I was going to have to do it.

As always, Mom was preparing for another Christmas Eve at our home with the Turner side of our family, but there was an unfortunate complication—Dad was sick. For days, my Dad had been trying his best to fight off an illness that seemed to get worse and worse and worse with every cough. I had gone upstairs earlier in the day, and Dad was laying in the bed wearing his usual elastic-ankled, matching sweatsuit, looking weaker and more tired than I had seen him in a long time.

“A lot ‘a good that vitamin C did you, hey old man?” I said to him with a smart-alecky smirk on my face.

My Dad was the king of vitamins—and a pusher at that! Every morning, I’d hear the familiar rattle-rattle-rattle of his pill bottles in the kitchen as he horked down enough supplements to grow an orange grove in the soil of the Sahara. Vitamin C, Vitamin B, Fish Oil capsules, multivitamins, magic beans, jumping beans, jelly beans….you name it, Dad took it. As he lay withered and hacking in the bed the day before Christmas, I couldn’t help but deliver a bit of a low-blow to my old man by teasing him about his vitamin obsession.

“You just remember….I’ll recover ten times faster because of the vitamin C,” he said with sincerity, and I laughed and told him how great I was feeling because I had once taken a vitamin shaped like Fred Flintstone when I was seven.

I spent some time at his bedside asking him how he was feeling and watching a bit of TV with him, and I knew that Dad had to be pretty darn sick to be bedridden the day of a Christmas gathering. Dad loved the holidays, he loved having people over the house, and he loved talking with people and just being near them more than anything else. After we talked for a few minutes, I wanted to let him rest and I went back downstairs to watch a little television. Moments later, Mom came down the stairs with a bit of a worried look on her face and delivered the news.

“I think you’re going to have to carve the ham.”

I hadn’t even thought about it until that very moment. Dad wasn’t about to get within fifty feet of the food that would be served at Christmas dinner that night, but it had just hit Mom that he usually carved the ham each year but wouldn’t be able to now.

I got a pit in my stomach. “I mean, Mom, I don’t have a license or anything…”

We both knew there was no way of getting around it, and for the next few hours I tried to replay all the times I had watched Dad cut a ham in the kitchen before our Christmas Eve celebration. It was then that I realized that my motivation for watching Dad cut a ham all those years was to try and sneak a few premature scraps that he had cut, and at no point had I ever actually paid attention to what he was doing with the electric knife.

As the clock ticked closer to our family’s 6’o clock arrival, I got a bit more nervous; but Dad came up with a good idea. Instead of carving the ham, Dad would be the teacher and I would be the apprentice. Dad would stand a good ten feet behind me, and while looking over my shoulder, he would tell me where to cut, how to cut, and where to place each piece. I was still a bit nervous and overwhelmed by the task ahead, but it sure felt better knowing that I had a Dad who had all the answers and would be looking over my shoulder the entire time.

The moment came, and Dad made his way downstairs. I knew he didn’t feel well at all, but I was so thankful that he was willing to help me. Over the next half hour or so, Dad told me how to properly carve the ham. He had me locate particular spots to make main cuts and dividing cuts, and then he told me how to lift the ham and cut near the bone so that everything seemed to fall right off. Magically, it worked. Dad pointed and instructed me, showing me how he typically stacked the pieces of meat neatly on the platter. He told me which pieces of the ham would likely be the “pretty pieces” and which ones would be the scrap pieces that he would save for sandwiches the on Christmas day (which was likely code for pieces of ham he had planned to sneak to our dog, Lucy). He showed me how to carve in such a way that there was very little meat left on the bone at the end, and although I wasn’t as efficient or sharp as Dad was, the stress of having to take on such an important task wasn’t nearly as bad because Dad was right there with me the entire time.

For the remainder of the night, Dad mostly remained up in the bedroom trying to recover from his sickness—which was an occurrence as rare as a Santa Claus sighting. Dad lived for family gatherings and spending time talking to other people, and the fact that he couldn’t even come downstairs was extremely unusual. Dad made a few “quick appearances” throughout the night, mainly to grab punch or some jello that he could tolerate eating. Each time, he would say hello to everyone who was there and make a few quick jokes, but he was really afraid of getting anyone else sick. He would grab a small plate and drink, and right back up the stairs he would go. Everyone’s face would light up as soon as they saw Dad, even if it was only for a few brief moments—he had the ability to light up a room just by being there. It was not the way my Dad likely wanted to spend Christmas, and it hurts to think about how sad he must have been to not be able to spend time with his family—especially knowing what we know now.

Dad’s last Christmas was that 2012 Christmas. Just seven months later, his clinical depression would overtake him, and suicide would claim his life. It tears my heart to pieces to think that Dad was so ill on his last Christmas on Earth that he couldn’t even enjoy the holiday with the same gusto and enthusiasm that he usually did. The holidays were always so special and important to Dad, and there is a haunting sadness when I reflect on his last Christmas, knowing he was quarantined to an upstairs bedroom when the family he loved and cherished was right downstairs. None of us could have ever imagined that December 2012 would be Dad’s last Christmas. Had we known, we would have all taken the risk of coming down with whatever sickness he had. I might have even taken some vitamin C to put his mind at ease. I hate that Dad’s last Christmas wasn’t as good as it could have been, and there’s absolutely no sugar coating that. It just doesn’t feel fair. If anyone deserved a spectacular Christmas, it was my Father.

2013 was our first Christmas without Dad, and there were many, many things that I was dreading about that first holiday. Thinking about Christmas morning without my Dad there with Mom and I was nauseating. Wondering how I would focus on family functions when all I could think about was the tragedy of losing my Father seemed impossible.

And yes, selfishly, I was dreading having to carve the ham.

To some, it may sound silly to have such a dramatic reaction to carving a ham, but knowing that I would have to carve the ham was just another reminder that Dad was gone. A role he had played for many decades was now vacant, and it was a painful reminder that he was never coming back. Carving the ham was a rite of passage, and the passing of the electric knife in this moment seemed so unnecessary, so premature, and absolutely wrong in every way. Dad should’ve been there. He should’ve been carving the ham—not me. He was too young. He should have been there.

Mom asked me to carve the ham reluctantly, knowing it would be difficult for me to do it, and of course I offered to help. Mom was suffering just like I was, and I knew we were both going to have to do things to keep going that we might not have necessarily wanted to do. I knew that Mom didn’t want to ask me, but I also knew that she had to. Throughout the day, I worried about being able to carve the ham properly without my Dad. I worried that a year had gone by and so much had happened and I knew, I just knew, that I was going to forget everything Dad had taught me. It was an awful and helpless feeling. Unfortunately, it was a feeling that invaded every area of my life. As each day passed after his death, I worried that I was forgetting him and losing him each time I started to move on. Not being able to carve a ham would be a revelation of how I had taken my Father for granted, and it was a painful reminder of my own guilt.

Nonetheless, our family Christmas Eve was approaching, and I walked into the kitchen trying my best to hold it all together. I got out the electric knife, and remembered Dad telling me to install the blade before plugging it in to avoid any tragic digit-dissections. Point taken, Pop—point taken. Even though he wasn’t there, I could hear him making his typical Dad-joke as he offered this reminder, maybe even pretending that he had lost a finger in the tragic ham-carving accident of 1968.

It felt good to laugh with my Dad again, even if I could only hear his spirit.

I started carving, and before I knew it, I had about a half platter full of ham laid out. Slowly and purposefully I carved away, and all the while I tried to remember all of the things that Dad had told me—where to cut, how to cut, which pieces to keep and which pieces to put in the scrap bag. The entire time, I pictured my Dad over my shoulder—still instructing, still directing. The entire time, I was reminded that although Dad wasn’t there in many ways, he was there in many other ways.

Before I knew it, the job was done. The entire ham had been carved, and although I definitely wasn’t as precise or stealthy as Dad always was, I was proud of myself.

And then, I went out into our sunroom just off the kitchen and started tearing up; and before I knew it, I was crying really, really hard. The weight of what had just happened hit me. Dad wasn’t there to carve the ham, and he would never be there again. Dad would never be there for another Christmas Eve, another Christmas morning. He’d never be there to help decorate the tree or put up Christmas lights. He would never be there to give Mom weird Christmas gifts or watch all 24 hours of The Christmas Story on television. The weight and gravity of what had happened overwhelmed me. I was being forced to fulfill roles that my Dad had always held because he would no longer be there to hold them.

Mom knew I was upset, and she came out and gave me a hug as we cried together. “I know how much you miss him,” she whispered. “I miss him so much, too.” We cried together for a long, long while before our family showed up, and although we tried to hide our red and weary eyes from them, it was useless. They, too, were hurting. My Dad had been so important to so many of us. We were all grieving, and this first Christmas would be a very difficult one without him.

As we stood there hugging, we felt the emptiness of our home even though there was only one person missing. Dad’s physical presence might have been gone, but it was so easy to picture him there and see and hear him. I thought back on that last year, and I could picture my Dad standing over my shoulder. I could hear his instructions, and I started to think about how none of us on that Christmas Eve in 2012 could have ever predicted that it would be Dad’s last. How we might have acted differently had we known that it would have been.

But all along as I was standing there carving, I could feel Dad still looking over my shoulder, but he was encouraging me in many more areas than simple ham carving. He was telling me that he was still there. I could feel him telling me that it was going to be okay and that everything was going to work out, even though life seemed so sad at the time. Dad’s presence was with us that entire first Christmas in so many ways. It was different, and sad, and at times horribly painful; but then, at other times, Mom and I would find glimpses and reminders of the joy we had experienced when Dad was around. But I know, in both the good moments and the bad, Dad’s memory and spirit was always there with us, telling us that he loved us and that everything would be okay. Dad had received the gift of Eternity with Jesus Christ this year, and we were all thankful that the pain he had riddled his soul for so many years was gone. Forever.

It might also sound dramatic to say this, but I believe it: I know that Dad teaching me how to carve that ham was a gift from God as He saw the stormclouds forming on the horizon. I know from everything I read about God in the Bible that he did not, I repeat, did not give my Dad his depression or cause his death—that was Satan. All good things come from God, including the good things that grow out of horribly dark, bad places. I know that God wished for my Dad to be healthy and happy and alive here with us; although God did not wish for my Father to die so soon, He did control the response to the tragedy and make sure that His glory would help us all survive our shaken family foundation. He did redeem my Father’s death by giving us blessings and safe havens all throughout the tragedy. And ultimately, I know that He redeemed my Father’s death by welcoming him into His loving arms in Eternity. Yes, our family had been damaged and hurt—but not irreparably. God was still building all of us up, and he was using my Dad’s story to save other lives. The pain did not disappear, and in all honesty it still hasn’t. But the pain is accompanied by a deep and abiding belief that God can see my family through anything. No difficulty and none of Satan’s battle tactics can defeat us because I love my Dad and I love my Heavenly Father.

As valuable as the ham-carving skills have become, Dad taught me so much more about Christmas in the 26 years that we celebrated the holiday together here on Earth. Dad always entered the holiday season with a strong sense of joy and excitement, and since losing him, I’ve tried to understand that my own holidays are finite and limited. I only have so many holiday seasons to enjoy with my family and the people I love, and I need to appreciate them for the treasure that they truly are. Unfortunately, it took me losing someone as precious and dear as my Father to understand this difficult truth; and although I don’t do it perfectly in every single moment, I know that I’ve grown to appreciate those simple life moments and the beauty they bring with them, and I think that’s what my Dad would want all of us to learn from his life.

Christmas will never be the same without my Dad; but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good. That doesn’t mean that I have to be so overwhelmed by my grief that I can’t see or experience the happiness that still exists within the world after Dad left us. And as time wears on, I gain even more perspective and focus on the value of life and love, and just how fragile all of it can be. I am reminded of how I know my Dad would have wanted to experience more and more Christmases, and all of the excitement he still had to live for that was stolen from him by a horrible, devastating mental illness. In that way, just like he did standing over my shoulder on that last Christmas, my Dad is still teaching me how to live my life in his death. I don’t always do it perfectly, but I’m doing it better because of him. He’s always standing over my shoulder—gently guiding and instructing me on how to be a better man.

I’m thankful for his instruction. And I’m thankful, each and every Christmas, for the wonderful gift of my Father. And my family is thankful that year after year, I get a little bit better at carving that ham.

Dad, At times, Christmas has felt so empty without you. My heart has been enraptured with pain when I think about what was stolen from you and us by mental illness. You deserved many more Christmases. You deserved to celebrate with our growing family, and to eventually be a Grandfather who were spoiled with your generosity and sense of childlike wonder. The holidays had a special sparkle when you were here to celebrate them, and since you’ve been gone, we’ve all felt an overwhelming sense of loss, guilt, and sadness. But the gift that was given to us was the reassuring truth of knowing that you are safe in God’s arms—free of pain, distress, and all the unfair difficulties that haunted you in this life. Dad, there is no question in my mind where your Eternal mailing address is. I know you are in Heaven, watching down over all of us and telling us that life is going to work out even on the days when the pain of losing you makes it hard to believe. I think of you all the time, but even more so on Christmas. Christmas was a happy time because you provided so much joy to those you loved. Watching the way you enjoyed spending time with your family has been an inspiration to me, and I wish you and I could sit around, share a glass of punch, and laugh again the way we always did. Dad, thank you for teaching me what it means to be a man who loves his family not just at Christmas, but every day of the year. I have many more Christmases to go without you, but I’m looking forward to that first one we can spend together in Eternity. Until that day, I love you. Merry Christmas, Bub.

“This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9 (NLT)

Wondering

On June 20, 2019June 20, 2019 By seeyabubIn Grief, HolidaysLeave a comment

My Dad’s death from suicide has left me in a constant state of wondering.

On Father’s Day, Paige and I found ourselves enjoying lunch at one of our favorite spots: Chuy’s. As I’ve written about previously, Father’s Day is an extremely difficult day for me to navigate. Every Father’s Day leaves me wishing I had just one more to celebrate with my Dad. He deserved a bigger celebration than any I ever gave him on this Earth, and each year that passes brings its own unique challenge and struggle within my emotions. Some years, it’s a tremendous sense of loss and grief that overwhelms me. Other years, its anger and frustration that mental illness stole my Father away from a world that loved him beyond words.

But this year, it was a sense of wondering—constant, ever-present, answerless wondering—that overtook my capacities.

While I plowed down a basket of chips and salsa (and then another…and maybe one more), I noticed a table nearby with about ten family members around it. There were mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, and one very adorable baby who smiled at me every now and then as she rested her head on her Mom’s shoulder. There were a number of young adolescent boys who all seemed to be extremely respectful of their parents, aunts, and uncles, which always warms my heart—especially when I see children who talk to their parents and adults in their lives over a meal instead of staring aimlessly into an iPad. I’ve always enjoyed people watching, and this was a fun family to watch. From the outside looking in, they looked like a near-perfect family in many respects.

My interest during most of the lunch, however, was drawn to the head of the table. Sitting there was an elderly man in a wheelchair. He had mostly-graying hair, glasses, a cheerful smile, and a hearty laugh that would bellow out every few minutes. Wearing a bright orange short that appeared to reflect his happy personality, the man was intensely present with every one of his family members sitting around the table. Although he seemed to be enjoying the chips and salsa just as much as I was, he listened to the stories of his family members, responded, asked them questions, and listened some more. In every moment, he seemed extremely invested in the conversation and the people he was talking with, and generally, he appeared to be so happy to be at the table with all of them.

I don’t know how the man got to the table that day, or the story of his family, but I could tell that he was a man who had earned the respect of those who were sitting near him. He was a patriarch who had clearly established a family built on love, trust, and loyalty.

I was extremely distracted during that lunch, and as much as I tried to look away from this man and his family, I was transfixed. I found myself struggling to focus on anything else but watching this man, the way he behaved, and the way his family treated him. I kept trying to imagine the years and decades full of wonderful life experiences that had brought them all together—both the moments of joy and the sadness of defeat or tragedy that they had likely experienced as a family.

And all throughout, I wondered.

I wondered what could have been within my own family, and I saw it pictured with the family in front of me.

From the moment that I heard my Dad was dead, my mind immediately had to make an important shift. Unfortunately, all the things that were “want to’s” with Dad—the bucket list of things we had always planned and wanted to do together—became “should haves.” Instantaneously, thoughts of how I had squandered or ignored precious time with the man who meant everything to me flooded to the forefront of my grieving mind. Because my Father had passed away so suddenly at the age of 50 without any prior warning that his final days were nearing, there was a feeling of the rug being pulled out from underneath me in a horrible, violent, life-altering way. I felt as if I had been robbed of a treasure that I didn’t even know I had. All of a sudden, that “thief in the night” scripture in 1 Thessalonians held a whole new, all-too-real significance.

And from that moment on, I began wondering.

A permanent sense of questioning and fruitless speculation began to take over my life on that July day in 2013, and it continues to manifest itself in so many different facets of my life; but it’s especially present on Father’s Day. Father’s Day is the day that I reflect on all the great moments that I shared with my Dad and all the lessons that he taught me; but it’s also the day in which I wonder about the rest of his life that he deserved to live. The life he should have had but never did.

As I looked at the grandfather sitting nearby our table, I wondered what it would have been like to watch my Dad grow old. It was clear that the man at the table next to me had suffered some type of difficulty that required him to use a wheelchair, but he also had remarkable, quick movements as he ate—I think at one point he even surpassed my chip/salsa intake! Clearly, some of the effects of aging had taken away a few of the liberties that he had once enjoyed, but he seemed to not let those obstacles get in his way.

It was stupendous to watch, and I wondered, silently, if my Dad would have aged with the same grace and determination that this man embodied. I have no doubt that my Dad would have aged well, as he rarely found himself in a situation where negative health effects overtook him. Yes, he likely would have gotten a few more wrinkles. Yes, his vision would have likely gotten a bit worse. But I knew that I would always be able to tease him about not being able to lose any more hair than he already had!

I’m sure the aging process wouldn’t have been all fun and games for Dad, but it would have been fun for me to watch the man that I had first known in his late-20’s and early-30’s grow and age into an elderly man—a patriarch. Sitting at the table that day, I wondered what Dad would have looked like. I wondered what clothes he would have worn. I wondered if his beard would have grayed entirely. I wondered about every seemingly simple and stupid detail of his life. And I grew frustrated knowing I would never have those answers.

I also wondered about the more profound things. How long would Dad have lived had mental illness and suicide not robbed him of the life he deserved to experience? I don’t have much evidence to back up my assertion, but I always believed my Dad would have lived into his nineties or hundreds, and I believe he would have been largely independent and self-functioning the entire time. That’s just the way he was. Dad had a zest and an appetite for life that led me to believe he would have wanted to hold onto every ounce of it for as long as he could—which is what makes his untimely death from suicide all the more perplexing. On this day, and on many others, I found myself drifting into a daze where I pictured my already-bald, wrinkled, bespectacled Father sitting across from me with his familiar laugh and twinkling smile shining through the weariness of time. It hurt me deeply to know that the vision I had imagined would be as close as I would ever get to seeing my elderly Father in front of me.

But as I watched this man at the restaurant, I began to wonder about more than encroaching wrinkles and receding hairlines. As the meal wore on, this Father/Grandfather took a keen interest in his family members who were sitting around the table. He listened and laughed as his sons and daughters told stories, just as my Dad had always done when I talked with him. He lowered his gaze and leaned low to meet the eyeline of his handsome, well-behaved grandsons, asking them questions about the sports they played, their schooling, and their friends and classmates. He made silly faces at his newborn granddaughter, and his entire face melted into a deep smile every time she clapped at him, reached for his arm, or offered a newborn giggle or coo.

You could tell that this man wasn’t here for a sympathy lunch or a meal born of obligation. This man was sitting at the head of the table because, in the eyes of those who loved him, he had completely earned that head spot and they wanted to celebrate him. Each family member assembled at the table had a sense of reverence for the man they were likely honoring at lunch, and it was heartwarming to watch their actions in a world where these types of selfless behaviors are all-too-infrequent.

I couldn’t help but picture my Dad in that man’s seat. I couldn’t help but flash-forward to a world that will never exist, wondering what life would have been like for my Dad as a Father, Grandfather, and patriarch of his family. As I enter a new chapter of my life with an impending wedding date on the calendar, I often wish that Dad and Paige could have met to share life with one another. In so many ways, they would have been peas in a pod. They would have appreciated one another’s humor—especially humor at my expense. He and Mom together would have treated Paige like the daughter they never had, and although it’s been a true blessing to watch my Mom enjoy welcoming Paige into our family, I also wish that my Dad could have experienced that same blessing. I know that Dad would have taken an interest in everything Paige did, and he would have been amazed by her talent, knowledge, and determination. On many days, I find myself wondering how they would have enjoyed growing together as father and daughter-in-law, and I constantly wonder what their relationship would have looked like. And it pains my soul to know they never had a chance to experience life with one another.

And although I joke about the nervousness I feel at the thought of becoming a Father myself someday, I know that God has a plan for me to raise children; and I know with more certainty than anything else that my Dad would have been an outstanding Grandfather. Even with this certainty, however, I wonder about the things I’ll never know. What would Dad have wanted to be called? Grandpa? Grandad? Papaw? Pops? Just wondering about the nickname his future-grandchildren would have bestowed upon him brings tears to my eyes. I wonder about all of the fun moments he would have been able to share with them—likely doing things that Paige and I would have told him they were not allowed to do. Candy consumption would have been at an all-time-high. Punishments would have been nonexistent with Grandpa. Trips to the amusement park and trick dives from the deck into the swimming pool would have been everyday occurrences. My Dad would have taken the charge for grandfathers to spoil their grandchildren to heart as his personal life mission. I have no doubt that he would have showered them with gifts and treats and experiences, but more than anything, he would have given them every ounce of love he had. He would have loved them, and I have no doubt that they would have loved him just as much.

And unfortunately for me, and for those future grandchildren of his, we will never, ever get to see him fulfill that duty. And it’s absolutely heartbreaking.

Suicide (or any tragic, untimely death for that matter) creates many unique grief-related emotions within those who are left behind, but most prevalently it creates the sensation that the victim and their loved ones have been robbed—robbed of time and of a future together. After losing Dad to suicide, I remember telling people that I felt like the victim of a theft. It may have been a strange analogy, but it accurately conveyed the grief better than any other example. One day, I had a loving Father with the promise of having him in my life for a very long time, and the next day all I had to cling to were memories and the broken pieces left behind.

That unnatural feeling of being robbed, at least in my life, likely occurs because suicide in and of itself is unnatural. As a Christian, I firmly believe that suicide runs counter to God’s desire for our life. In no way do I believe it is an unforgivable sin (a common myth which I’ve addressed previously and will continue to address in posts to come), but I do believe that God’s heart breaks when one of his children loses a battle to depression. Although God can redeem bad things, like suicide, I think he also had grander plans for my Dad. I believe God wanted to see him grow old. I believe God wanted to see him become the patriarch of our larger family and become a grandfather. I believe God wanted to see my Dad enjoy retirement and many more years of marriage to my Mom. I wanted these things. We all did. I believe God wanted these things.

And I know, deep down in the innermost parts of his being, my Dad wanted them too.

My Father’s death from suicide prevented him from ever experiencing a whole new phase of joy and prosperity that he so unbelievably deserved, and my heart breaks for him because he was robbed unfairly. I know that we don’t earn God’s blessings because He freely gives them; but if there was a way to earn them, my Dad had done everything in his life necessary to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Instead, suicide and mental illness stole those opportunities away from my Father; and they stole the joy of knowing and experiencing life with him away from all of us who loved him so deeply. It’s left all of us, including me, in a constant state of wondering that will never, ever be satisfied on this side of Eternity. I’m thankful that I know, one day, I’ll be able to see my Dad again and the pain of his absence will be a memory that is long and forever forgotten. That promise keeps me moving ever-forward; but it doesn’t diminish the pain I feel in this moment. It never fully eradicates the confusion, guilt, and loss that pervades every minute of my existence.

I continued to watch the family on this last Father’s Day at the restaurant, and my attempts to avoid the pain of Father’s Day were futile. Although it was painful to think about what I had lost as I watched this family, there was also beauty in the reassurance of God’s promise that I will, someday, greet my Father again. I will, someday, run to the arms that cradled me as a baby and tell my Dad how much I’ve missed him. Like that family, I’ll enjoy a meal with my Dad that will be grander and greater than any we ever shared together on this Earth. We will laugh together again. We will bond together again. We will experience a love stronger than this world could ever provide, together as Father and son.

And in that moment, a moment I’m patiently yet desperately longing for, I’ll wonder no more.

Dad, You lived a big and vibrant life while you were here with all of us, and your absence is even more noticeable and painful because the void left behind is so great. You deserved to live a fuller life than the one you experienced, and I’m sorry I didn’t do more to make that dream reality. Dad, I would have loved watching you grow old—even though it might not have been as much fun for you as it would have been for me. I would have loved seeing you on my wedding day, and you have no idea how much I would have appreciated your wisdom about navigating this new chapter in my life because you were such an amazing husband for Mom. And yes, I would have loved watching you become a grandpa more than anything else. I know you would have been silly and goofy and ridiculous—and completely adored by your grandchildren. But Dad, as much as I wanted to watch those things for myself, I’m ultimately saddened because you earned the right to experience all of those wonderful things. I hate mental illness and suicide for robbing you of these life chapters. Mental illness separated you from us and from many wonderful, beautiful moments that awaited your future. And although I won’t get to watch you enjoy life, and although I’ll always have questions about why this happened to you, I do find peace knowing that you’re not suffering any longer. I find a sense of comfort knowing that the unjustified feelings of shame and embarrassment that you experienced in this world are completely gone and fully redeemed. And I know that as great as any experience you could have had here with us might have been, you’re experiencing a joy and beauty beyond any other as you bask in the glory of Heaven and God’s everlasting love and paradise. Dad, keep watching over me, and keep reassuring me that you were called Home for a reason. I love you, and I wish we could have experienced more of this life together; but I know there’s a greater reward and an unbelievable reunion awaiting us. Thank you Dad, and until the day when we are reunited forever, seeya Bub.

“Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NLT)

Lucy (Part 2)

On September 11, 2018 By seeyabubIn Grief1 Comment

This is the second post in a special three-part series at SeeyaBub.com. Be sure to read “Lucy: Part 1” as a prelude to this installment.

After Dad and Mom brought Lucy home, I held firm in my commitment to be loyal to Willow and I resisted any sign of adoration for our newest puppy.

At least for a solid ten minutes or so.

From the moment she came home, Lucy was impossible to resist. I have a weak-constitution for puppy cuteness, and Lucy melted my defenses rather quickly. Airedale terriers are adorable puppies. What will eventually grow into a 60 or 70-pound dog starts out as an eight-pound ball of fur with a shortened snout and gangly legs. Lucy looked like most Airedale pups I had seen in photographs, but there was one defining characteristic that was different. Lucy had a tiny little white patch of fur right on the middle of her chest. I had never seen an Airedale with any color fur other than black and brown. Immediately, she was different from the rest; and the more I got to know her, the more wonderfully different I discovered she was.

On the night of her arrival, Dad brought Lucy down into our family room, wrapped up like a baby in a fuzzy pink blanket. I tried to act like I wasn’t interested in her because I was so resistant to getting another dog after Willow’s recent death…but I was interested. Very interested. I had never had an actual puppy before. Muffin was older than I was, and Willow had come into our family when she was two. I had always wanted a little puppy, and now that we had one, I was acting like a stubborn jerk entirely because of my ego and pride.

Dad sat the blanket bundle down on his lap, and Lucy poked her head out from the blanket mound and peered around our family room. She looked straight at me with her dark eyes, and when she made her way down onto the carpet and slowly meandered towards me, I knew that I was done. My resistance would have to fall, because this pup was just too cute. With the pain of losing Willow momentarily fading, I reached down and scooped Lucy into my arms. For the rest of the night, she and I spent our time on the couch as she adjusted to her new surroundings. A few times, I glanced at Mom and Dad and saw them giving one another that familiar “I told you he’d cave” look. I tried my best to not let them get any satisfaction from defying my gutless order to not bring home another family dog, but it was useless.

Eventually, I decided to lay down on the couch. I laid on my stomach with arms tucked underneath my chest as I always did, and Lucy looked at me a bit confused about what she should be doing. That’s when she hopped up on my calves and nestled herself in between my ankles.

And from that moment on, I don’t think I ever quit loving Lucy. Even if my stubborn pride wouldn’t let me admit it.

I tried to find ways not to like Lucy, and early on she gave me plenty of ammunition. Anyone who has raised a puppy knows the pain of those first few weeks. Any cuteness they possess is outweighed by their inability to follow the simplest of instructions. You literally have to follow them around like a four-legged baby trying to prevent them from doing things that they shouldn’t be doing. Their razor-sharp baby teeth nibble and nibble and nibble—always on things they shouldn’t be nibbling.

And don’t even get me started on the potty training.

Even the best dogs start out as four-legged-terror-mongers that disrupt your home and your life, and Lucy was no different. As the newest member of our family, she did not always put her best paw forward—especially on the day when her puppy misbehavior caused me to erupt like Krakatoa.

Early on in my sports broadcasting career, I would regularly wear a suit and tie to announce a game. It was a bit of a trademark for me, and even as a young man I always enjoyed wearing suits. They made me feel like I knew what I was doing in life—when most of the time I had no idea what I was doing!

One blustery winter afternoon, I was headed to announce a basketball game and thought a suit was fitting for the occasion. I pulled one particular suit out of my closet, and looked at it with a smile. It was a suit I had just recently purchased—navy blue with a very subtle pinstripe. The fabric was silkier and smoother than most of the fabric on the other suits I owned, and apparently that silky fabric costs a whole lot more money because I had paid dearly for this one. I didn’t have much money to my name as a young professional, and I had spent quite a bit more than I had wanted to on this suit. I was proud of it, and this would only be my second time wearing it. I picked out a perfect light blue shirt, and a bright orange tie that would pop (I’ve always had a thing for those bright ties). After suiting up and tying the perfect knot, I made my way down the stairs, secretly hoping my parents would notice me and compliment me on my flashy style.

Instead, I heard Lucy bouncing up the stairs to meet me in the living room. As my Mom toiled away in the kitchen, Lucy noticed me and gleefully bounced towards me. I reached down to pet her, and she looked at me with a puppy-dog smile and a panting tongue.

And then, she did the unthinkable.

She looked right at me, cocked her head, ran up to me, and bit straight into the pant leg of my new suit, tearing a shred out of the expensive, silky fabric.

I exploded with fury. I yelled “YOU STUPID DOG!” as loud as I possibly could, and went in with a swipe to swat her away from doing any further damage. She moved away from me with a look of fright and confusion, and my Mom ran out from the kitchen.

“What happened?!” she said.

“Your dumb dog just ripped a hole in my brand new suit!” I yelled back, being sure to emphasize the fact that Lucy was not my dog.

Mom looked on, not quite knowing what to do. My sun-deprived thigh was gleaming through the hole in my suit pants, and I could feel the heat of anger flooding my face. Meanwhile, Lucy stood in the corner, just far enough from me so I couldn’t make any sudden movements. My Mom just stood there, without saying much to her comically-angry son.

“WELL, AREN’T YOU GOING TO SAY ANYTHING?!” I shrieked. This was not a time for silence; this was a time for justice! Wrong had been done, and right would need to be swiftly restored! I wanted restitution! I wanted this four-pawed-perpetrator to pay for her crimes!

I don’t even remember what Mom said to me in that moment, because anger has a tendency to cloud your mind and your memory. I do remember storming up the stairs, changing into a suit that was older and stiffer, yet hole-free. I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the house as our tiny puppy cowered in the corner.

I seethed the entire day, and when I came home and saw Lucy playing with my Dad in the family room like nothing had ever happened, my fury grew even more intense.

And years later, when I look back on this moment, I’m ashamed at how foolish I acted. I’m embarrassed at my immaturity, my materialistic greed, and my pathetic self-righteousness.

Eventually, and taking much longer than it ever should have, my frustration gave way because…well, it’s simply impossible to resist a puppy, no matter what stupid thing they might do. And if a puppy has a special personality, it’s even more difficult.

Lucy had that in abundance. Lucy’s calm demeanor during the first 24 hours of her life in my family was a well-executed mirage delivered by a sneaky infiltrator. When I came home on Lucy’s second day in the Bradshaw house, the docile, pleasant pup that I had left that morning was replaced with a rambunctious, mischievous, four-legged fur-covered peddler of destruction. When I came home that day, my poor Mother looked like she had barely survived a hurricane. She looked at me with a frazzled exasperation as Lucy, with toys strewn all across our normally-clean family room, bounced and barked and bolted to every corner of the house. She was worse than a baby because she was faster. I couldn’t believe she had fooled us! Lucy had spunk—and a whole lot of it.

Over time, Lucy learned how to control that spunk, and we learned how to control her. But even with her spunk in-check, Lucy was just different—and we loved her because she was different.

From the moment she set foot (and foot and foot and foot) into our house, Lucy was treated differently than any other dog we had ever had—especially when it came to her presence in the home. Those of you who know my Mother know that she has many wonderful traits and talents. One of those talents which I’ve grown to appreciate since becoming a homeowner is my Mother’s ability to keep a clean home. From the time I was little, we always had the cleanest home imaginable—even if I didn’t always realize it as a child. My Mom is an immaculately-clean individual, and I think that one of the ways she showed love to Dad and I was by always giving us a clean house to come home to. I probably didn’t tell her how much I appreciated it then. In fact, I likely told her how much having to clean up my toys annoyed me. Now, I’m extremely thankful and gracious.

That’s why Lucy’s complete reign over our house surprised me so much!

Our first dog, Muffin, was only allowed inside the house during the winter months or particularly hot days. Even then, she was confined to stay only in the lower quarters of the house. When Willow came into our family, she had always been raised as an indoor-dog. Mom knew that she would have to let Willow into the house most of the time, but even then there were parameters. Under no circumstance whatsoever would Willow be allowed to be on the furniture; couches, beds, and chairs were for two-legged creatures only. (Mom, I can admit to you now that on summer days when I was home by myself, I would often let Willow onto the couch to sit next to me. And she absolutely loved it. And your couches are fine. And I love you!).

But with Lucy, it was different from the start. She was immediately allowed onto the couch—and I was shocked! And then, the unthinkable happened; Mom actually let Lucy sleep in the bed with her! What world was I living in?! Who had abducted my Mom and who was this woman that now gladly beckoned the dog onto the furniture?

If Lucy could turn my Mom, the master of cleanliness and housekeeping perfection, into a woman who allowed a dog onto the furniture…that meant she had powers I didn’t quite understand. And she used those special puppy powers to work her way into our hearts in some pretty unimaginable ways.

When Lucy was little, I used to carry her around the house quite often. And unlike most dogs, she really enjoyed being carried! After a little while, it got more and more difficult to carry her around as she continued to grow. And by the time she reached 40 pounds, our little puppy, who I affectionately called “Monkey”, was a bit to heavy to carry with one arm. So I did what any normal person would do.

I started carrying her around like a child.

I would actually pick Lucy up by her front legs and toss them over my shoulder. Then, Lucy would wrap her hind legs around my waist, and I would comfortably carry her around as she nuzzled her snout on my shoulder. Looking back, it’s the most ridiculous thing I could ever imagine doing as a dog owner.

And I loved it.

We all loved Lucy. I loved her, and my Mom loved her, and my Dad loved her. And she loved all of us equally, unlike the other family dogs we had owned that adored my Dad at Mom and I’s expense.

But Dad, just as he had done with all of our other dogs, absolutely loved Lucy and devoted as much energy to her as he possibly could. .

Thankfully, my Dad, our dog-whisperer-in-residence, was there to take care of most of the discipline and direction when we first got Lucy. My Dad loved working with animals, even when the animals weren’t easy to work with. I think he saw teaching pets as a challenge that he wanted to conquer, and he had a way of showing love through firmness. Quickly and efficiently, Lucy was housebroken and learning how to sit, lay down, and yes…play hide and seek with Dad. My Dad had a special talent, and we all benefited from it.

That’s what I loved about watching Dad with a new dog. As frustrating as puppy-parenting might have been, he never let that frustration outweigh his joy and frivolity. Lucy and Dad truly were a match made in heaven because they both had such silly personalities. Early on, Dad discovered that Lucy really enjoyed chomping on plastic bottles. So, Dad did what any thoughtful, wise puppy Dad would do. He took a plastic bottle, tied it to a fishing pole, taped the bajeezus out of it, and cast it out into the yard for Lucy to retrieve.

I could watch Dad’s puppy-fishing expeditions for hours. Over and over again for hours into the evening, Dad would cast the bottle deep out into our yard. Lucy would sprint to retrieve the bottle, and just as she would get near it, Dad would start pulling the line in, jolting the bottle all over the yard just out of reach of her sharp little puppy teeth. The best part of the act was when Lucy would finally catch the bottle. Dad would start grunting and pulling on the fishing line, shouting “Oh boy! I got a big one this time! I bet it’s a 20-pounder!” Dad would then feign reeling the line in with difficulty until Lucy was eventually within his grasp. He would then throw down the line and start petting her and getting her all excited for the next round. Again, the bottle would go out, Lucy would retrieve, and Dad would laugh uncontrollably over and over until one of them was worn out. As Lucy grew, Dad had to abandon the fishing line. In its absence, he created a toy for Lucy that I still think he should have patented. Even dogs that visited our house were instantly attracted to this simple toy! He took a Pure Leaf tea bottle, filled it with rocks, drilled a hole through the cap, and threaded a heavy-duty rope through it that was tied with black electrical tape at both ends. Lucy would grab the bottle, and Dad would tug on the rope. This was a bit more strenuous, but Dad and Lucy could play with this toy for hours. Lucy would grunt, and Dad would shout out ridiculous taunts towards her. I can still picture them playing together and the fun they had with one another. When Dad wasn’t around, Lucy would grab the bottle and whip it around, spinning in circles and growling as she spun herself into dizziness.

Lucy was a puppy that played, and her playfulness made our home better.

Our entire family loved Lucy’s playfulness, and more than anything, I loved the fact that she would play fetch. My entire life, I had wished and prayed for a dog that would fetch. For the longest time, my prayers were unanswered. In the thirteen years I shared with our first dog, Muffin, I never saw her fetch anything. Willow would fetch…once or twice until she grew tired of it. But Lucy was the exact opposite. Thanks to my Dad’s conditioning, Lucy would fetch just about anything: bottles, Frisbees, tennis balls, household items that were not meant to be turned into playthings.

My Dad and I would both spend hours in the backyard playing fetch with Lucy. We especially enjoyed watching her fetch a Frisbee because of the suspense it created as it hung in the air. My Dad was an excellent Frisbee thrower, and Lucy was the perfect playmate. He loved throwing lofting, high tosses that would spiral in the air and hang over Lucy’s head, watching her spin and contort until she was within receiving distance.

And boy could Lucy catch. In all the years that she was in our home, I rarely saw her drop a Frisbee—even if it looked like it was going to be well out of her range to catch. Lucy could play fetch for hours and hours in the backyard, taking only short breaks every few minutes. But taking a break look it pained and personally annoyed her. Even if she was panting heavily, she would try to crawl towards you to hand you the Frisbee so she could run and play again. It was a joy to watch a dog who played the way she did.

Dad, being a playful guy, did everything with Lucy. If he was home, he wanted to be near her. If he had a bonfire in the backyard, Lucy was with him. If he was eating dinner, she was patiently waiting for a scrap nearby. If he was taking a nap, she was on the couch cuddled next to him. There were hour-long walks to the park, trips to the dog beach at Hueston Woods, and countless other memories that the two of them created together. They are memories filled with laughter and companionship, but joy more than anything else.

In fact, it was just a joy being around her. Lucy exuded joy. She spread it into our entire home. We had no idea how much we would need her joy, however, until a day that cold-cocked our entire family.

When July 24, 2013 came, I was standing on the front lawn of my family home with police cruisers to the left of me with lighted-sirens flashing across the concrete driveway. My Mom’s boss, Tom, was standing in the doorway of our home, holding open the screen door as an EMT rushed behind him. Minutes earlier, Tom had told me that there had been an accident in the house. An accident, involving my Dad. That accident had put his life in perilous danger. I didn’t know how close to or far away he was from death, but I knew from the urgency of the emergency responders that it couldn’t be good. Looking back, I’m sure my reaction looked peculiar to Tom because, on the surface, I reacted without much acknowledgement. My outward emotions did little to reflect my inner thoughts. On the outside, my shock looked like paralysis; on the inside, it looked like frenetic craziness.

After Tom went back into the home to help as best he could, I was in a world all by myself in the front yard. I began pacing back and forth, back and forth, as the summer-scorched grass crunched beneath my feet. I was beginning to sweat as my lungs grew tight and felt as if they were closing in. I tried to control my breathing, but there were no breathing exercises to help prepare me for this moment. Nor was there anything I could do to stop my racing mind. Horrible thoughts about the past and what could be my new reality in the future began to hijack my brain. I couldn’t see myself surviving if my Dad’s attempt at suicide was successful.

Tom had shared a little information about the nature of what had happened in the house when he gave me the news. I knew things were bad, but in the crisis moment, I believe my mind tried to hold onto any semblance of positivity that was within grasp. I knew that my Dad had been injured as a result of the suicide attempt, and even though there was a chance he wouldn’t survive, my mind still behaved as if he was going to pull through this—just as he had overcome every other challenge that he had ever faced. I began to think about what his recuperation process might look like, and how I would need to help. I told God, in that moment, that I would do anything to make sure Dad was well again.

I began to think about what life would look like in the next few hours, and the next few days, and then the next few years. Compounding thoughts of doubt and hope and confusion were already swirling in my brain. Using the little information that Tom had given me, I began to wonder about what had happened in the house over the last hour or so—between the time I had last seen Dad in the family room and now. I had gone home after talking with Dad, Mom had gone to work, and…

And then, it hit me. Lucy. My Dad and Lucy were in the house alone. And I worried that she had been caught up in the destruction.

Judge if you must, but let me first explain my grief-induced thoughts as best I can—even though I don’t understand them today and don’t know that I ever will. I know that some will read my words and wonder why or how I could even think of a dog when a human life was at stake.

At no point does thinking about the well-being of one life—human or animal—mean that I am automatically ignoring the status of the other. I was thinking about my Dad and praying for him feverishly and intensely—and I was simultaneously praying for Lucy. Not knowing about my Dad’s status created a panic within me; and not knowing about Lucy’s status also created a panic. It was okay for me to be concerned about my Dad and Lucy; and yes, my Dad was always my primary concern, but that didn’t diminish my love for Lucy. I was trying to hold onto the normal life as I had known it; and Lucy was part of that normalcy.

You might also judge my worries because, on the surface, they might have been accusatory towards my Father. My Dad had always been an animal over, and he especially loved Lucy. “How could you even think that Dad would do something to hurt one of our pets?” I’ve often thought to myself.

Let me present an imperfect defense. I never thought that my Dad would become a victim of suicide; but I stood there in that moment faced with the reality that his life was hanging in the balance because of a suicide attempt. I never, never would have thought that my Dad was so enmeshed within his depression that he could feel as if he wanted his life to end. If that thought could so feverishly consume my Dad, and if it could push him to do something this unthinkable, was it really so outlandish to think that something else could have happened in that moment of despair that Dad, in his right mind, would never have done? Mental illness had forced my Dad to do something unthinkable and completely out of his character, and there was always a chance that the mental illness could have forced my Dad to do other things that were unlike him. I didn’t know Lucy’s whereabouts when the attempt happened. It was completely feasible that she could have been hurt unintentionally.

Even writing these words is difficult because I don’t like what it implies about my Dad and his love for Lucy, but for better or for worse, it’s an accurate retelling of my inner thought processes.

Back and forth I continued to pace in the front yard, wondering about Dad. Wondering about Lucy. Wondering about what life was going to look like in this new, horrible normal. Even if Dad pulled through, life was going to be painfully different. There was no turning back.

And then, in the midst of my anxiety and prayers, I heard a familiar bark in the backyard. I walked towards the sunroom and glanced through the windows into the backyard, and I saw her. I saw Lucy, looking somewhat panicked herself, running from side to side in the backyard—completely healthy and looking for someone to love.

I breathed a short sigh of relief as one small wave subsided, and I prepared my mind and heart to face the tsunami that I feared would crash in moments later.

Lucy’s presence in that moment was a gift in the midst of a terrible, terrible storm. A few moments later, I would learn that my Father, my hero in this life, had died. Far too young, far too soon, far too unexpectedly. In that moment, I began life without Dad.

And Lucy was there to help me—and all of us—find a small ray of light in the midst of the dark clouds that enveloped our family. Lucy—sweet Lucy—would help to save us as best she could.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of “Lucy” in the coming weeks at SeeyaBub.com.

Five Years

On July 24, 2018 By seeyabubIn Foundation PostsLeave a comment

“I’ve spent my whole life building up this ivory tower, and now that I’m in it I keep wishing it would fall.” (Josh Gracin, “I Want to Live”)

Five years. Five long, sometimes-painful, seemingly-redemptive years.

It’s been five years—to the day, in fact—since I lost my Dad. 1,827 days full of a multitude of different emotions that I often can’t explain. Five years of heartache balanced by little victories all along the way. Five years of wondering what could have been had July 24, 2013 not happened. In those five years, a lot has happened; and a lot hasn’t happened because my Dad wasn’t here to make it so. I’ll always wish I could turn back the clock and change it.

Every single day is difficult—all 1,827 of them; but every single year, July 24 is a date that stares at me from the calendar. It looms in the distance for months, and when it passes, I always breathe a sigh of relief that it’s come and gone. But I know, deep down, that it’s coming again. It will always be there. No particular July 24 has been more or less difficult—just different. But because of the nice, round number, this one feels like a milestone. A milestone I wish I didn’t have to reach.

And, likely incoherently, I’d like to share a bit of my heart with you today.

For this post, I’m doing something that I don’t often do when it comes to writing my story at Seeya Bub, I’m actually writing this story less than 24 hours before I’ll publish it. Those of you who read regularly know that I’m a verbose, wordy guy (this one might be a record). I hope it also shows through that I spend a lot of time on these posts. I do this not out of an effort to impress people who read. I do this because it’s a labor of love for my Dad. I enjoy sitting down and writing for hours at a desk because keeping my Dad’s memory alive is the least I can do to repay him for all the wonderful things he did for me. That being said, I often start working on posts weeks before they’re due. One post could be the end result of 1-2 months worth of thinking, writing, producing, editing, re-writing, editing again, and second-guessing. I try to write weeks (if not months) removed from the publication date so I don’t feel rushed to share my Dad’s story. His story is too important to write about carelessly. I usually don’t have trouble getting motivated to write. After all, I’m doing this for my Dad. What more motivation could I need or possibly want?

Today’s post is different. It’s hard for me to admit this to you, but I’ve been putting this one off for a while, and I’m struggling to tell you why. It wasn’t a surprise. I map my posts out months in advance, knowing what I’m going to write and when I’m going to write it. Sometimes it changes on the fly, but I knew this never would. When I turned the page to the month of July in my planner, I knew that I’d be publishing today. I didn’t know the message, but I knew the title of the post would be “Five Years.” It’s not like this snuck up on me.

Below the surface, I know the reasons why I’ve waited. I’ve been trying not to write this post because I simply didn’t want this date to come. I didn’t ever want to reach a point in my life where I defined time by losing someone I loved, and I definitely didn’t want those moments to turn into ever-increasing numbers. Subconsciously, I’ve been telling myself if I didn’t write this post, I wouldn’t have to deal with the grief of losing my Dad.

But guess what? No amount of procrastination could stop that date from coming. No amount of denial could stop me from thinking about what this day represents. This day would come—and yes, it would eventually pass—but the second it did, the clock just begin counting down towards another unfortunate milestone. The next Christmas. The next birthday. The next Father’s Day.

Time is relentless. It is unforgiving and cruel and unabating.

And then, ironically, time also heals. Never fully, and never without first inflicting severe pain, but it does heal partially. Time builds up scars to help us avoid certain elements of the pain we feel, but the scars are always there. We stare at them. We obsess over them. And yes, we feel them.

This has been my life after losing my Father to suicide. A life full of complexity—feeling everything, and at the same time feeling nothing. Wanting time to stop one moment, and then wanting it to speed up the next. Even though I try to do it through writing, it oftentimes feels impossible for me to explain my grief. But in this post, I want to tell you how I feel—honestly, authentically, and without much polishing. I want to tell you about some of the feelings I’ve felt over the past five years. Unlike how I usually write, I don’t have a central theme or focus for this post, other than giving you some insight into what the emotional experience has been like for me. I just want you to know what I’m feeling—mainly because I wish I had known more of how my Dad was feeling.

It’s important that we talk about our feelings, even if there isn’t any other point in doing it than to lift the burdens they have on our lives. I’ve felt a lot of different things over these five years. And more than anything, I just want you to know that although time might change some feelings, there is one that will never change; and that is the unconditional love that I feel for my Father.

I feel shock. At least every day, although at different points throughout the day, I have to face the truth of my Dad’s death. At some point every single day, I have to tell myself, “He’s gone.”

I hate facing that moment head on. I absolutely hate it, but I live with it. And I know I have to do it.

In the immediate aftermath of Dad’s death, this happened almost instantaneously every morning. I would wake up, and the first thing I would think about is the fact that Dad had died. “Dad’s dead,” I would hear over and over again in my head, almost like someone was taunting me. My mind would lock in and obsess over this. It was hard to let that thought go—or maybe it’s hard to get that thought to let go of me. Some days it never did.

Time wears on. And some years down the road, it was still the first thought I had. But on other days, it would sneak up on me. On those other days, I might go for an entire hour before the thought of Dad’s death would cross into my mind.

And I’ll admit that this made me feel unbelievably guilty.

On those days when I was able to live for an entire hour or two and not think about Dad’s death, I felt guilty because there was something inside of me telling me I needed to obsess over it. There was an evil voice inside my head saying “See, he’s only been gone for a few months and you’re already forgetting about him. You’re pathetic.” Unfortunately, I started to believe that voice. How was it possible that I could go for a period of hours without thinking about the man who had given me so much? I knew that I shouldn’t beat myself up over this—that not obsessing over his death was not a reflection of my love for my Father. But our feelings are often very difficult to interpret, and sometimes we listen to the voices we shouldn’t. For a long time, I let that guilt eat me alive. And some days, I’m still living it.

There’s only one type of day that’s worse than this one, however. It’s the days when the shock and truth of Dad’s death completely blindsides me. Five years removed from his death, there will be the occasional day where the busyness of my life distracts me from the reality of Dad’s death. But then, something great will happen. And I’ll reach into my phone, pull it out, and go to dial Dad’s number.

And when it hits me that he’s gone, I completely crumble.

I beat myself up for not thinking of him earlier. I accuse myself of being so focused on myself that I can’t focus on others. I feel guilty and horrible, as if not thinking of my Dad’s death is a sign that his life didn’t matter. I tell myself that I’m not living life the way I should, that somehow I’m not “grieving enough,” as if that were even a thing. I dwell in the self-doubt and accusatory guilt that keeps me from being the man I know God wants me to be.

Eventually, I escape from that prison; but even five years removed from Dad’s death, I still have a really hard time coming to terms with the fact that I am a survivor of a family suicide. Before losing Dad, suicide was always something that happened to other people. Not me, not us. My family was “normal.” My family was “perfect.” My family was the American Dream. Suicide and mental illness couldn’t touch my family.

But it did. And I am one of those people left behind in the aftermath. And no amount of denial will ever change that fact. I still have a hard time telling people that my Dad was a victim of suicide because I don’t know how they will react. I know how judgmental I would have been when receiving that kind of news prior to my Dad’s death, and I don’t want those folks to make false and unfair assumptions about the man he was.

I am staring suicide and my Dad’s death in the face every single day. Some days I deal with it better than others. Some days I don’t deal with it well at all and I have to completely disconnect and disengage. But it’s always there—hovering overhead, continuing to send shockwaves through my system. I wonder if that shock will ever fade entirely.

I feel terror. I’m yelling, even though the rest of the house is quiet.

It’s happened again.

I roll over and look at the time on the clock. 3:26 AM. This was a particular night, but it could have been any night. I know that I’ve just been yelling—likely something inaudible. I’m in a cold sweat, but my face is wet from tears, not perspiration. I can feel how tense my body is, and my limbs are shaking. It’s happened again. I’ve just had to relive everything.

I didn’t want to. In fact, I never want to relive the pain of that day again. But in my dreams, the same memory often invades me. The flashback and vivid memories of the day I lost my Dad.

It’s those dreams—nightmares really—that you wish would never occur which often plague you most frequently. The day I lost my Dad was the most consequential day of my entire life to this point. Horrible? Yes. But also consequential? Unfortunately.

I don’t ever think I’ll stop seeing it, reliving it, and experiencing it in my head—no matter how hard I try.

Honestly, it’s happened less and less over time. When Dad first died, I was waking up in the middle of the night on a fairly regular basis. I was worried that I might never get another full night of rest ever again, because those early nights were so painful.

As farfetched as some dreams can be, it’s amazing how lifelike others are. They can throw you in the midst of a sensory whirlwind that places you back into a particular moment in time. Dreams of my Father have often been like this. I hate to say that I rarely have dreams about all the great times we shared together. Instead, the dream I experience most often is the dream of that horrible day.

When I have this dream, my stomach still turns just like it did on that morning when I heard the news that there’d been an accident involving my Dad. I can feel things and hear things and smell things that don’t even matter to the end result of the story, but I experience them nonetheless. But it’s that horrific 20-second vignette that constantly replays in my mind. I can see my Grandpa walking out of the house. I can feel his strong arms pull my Mom and I into a hug as my Mom sobs. I can hear my Grandpa’s breaking voice when he looks at us, hopelessly, and says “He’s gone.” For as long as I live, I’ll never be able to escape the sound of my Mother’s anguished scream. I feel myself falling to the ground in the front yard, and I feel that familiar sensation of being thrown into the depths of a deep ocean and sinking under the weight of the waves. I can sense a feeling of evil hovering above me. And in my dreams, I feel this all again—just as strongly as I did on the day it happened.

Some memories fade after five years—and the ones you want to fade often don’t.

On this particular night, I rest on the edge of my bed, closing and squinting my eyes so hard, trying to shut out the memory and the pain of that experience. I grab my ears, trying to get the sound of my Mother’s cry to stop. It’s like I’m trying to physically shake this memory free from my consciousness.

But I can’t. At least not immediately.

Before I know it, I’m in a completely inconsolable position and unable to control my own physical movements. I know why this memory continues to haunt me. I know that the trauma of this life-altering experience has burned and branded the sights and sounds of that moment onto my brain forever. Painfully, I know that I’ll always experience these moments to a certain extent.

But I just want it to stop. I don’t ever want to forget my Dad, but I want to forget the moment I lost him. I want to be able to escape the pain this moment causes me, but I wonder if I could ever escape it without forgetting how much I loved my Dad. I’m sure there will be a day at some point in my life when the flashback of losing him is easier to manage. But it won’t make that memory any less intense. It won’t make that memory any less severe. It will just be different. I know I’ll feel different at some point, but on a night like this one, I feel scared. Scared by the ghosts of a past image continuously haunting me, and scared by when the flashback might occur again.

I feel exhausted. “I’m sorry man,” I type. “I know we had plans, but I just don’t think I can do it tonight.”

I can’t even begin to think how many times I had to send this message to friends and family members and coworkers in the aftermath of Dad’s death. Especially after Dad died, there were many people—well-intentioned people—who tried to get me out of the house. They wanted me to get out and do things to try and get my mind off of losing my Dad, and I’ll always appreciate those moments of normalcy I had with them after losing Dad.

But there were some days—many days—when I just couldn’t. My grief kept me in bed. My grief kept me locked in the house, unwilling to face the world around me. My grief kept me disconnected and wrapped within my own darkness.

There were some days when I just couldn’t go to work, because everything at work felt so trivial in the aftermath of losing my Dad to suicide. I would actually grow angry towards my job—a job I loved—because it felt like nothing else mattered anymore. It was weird to, for the first time, feel a lack of desire and passion for my work. I had never experienced this before, and I wondered if I’d ever find pleasure and satisfaction in any activity that didn’t involve grieving my Dad’s death.

Social activities felt that way, too. I knew that my Dad’s death had taught me the need to love those in the world around me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to put that into action. It felt like I should be doing something more important, even if I didn’t know what that “something more important” should have been.

Those nights when I would bail on plans were usually very difficult and isolating. I would lock myself in the house with blinds drawn and lights dimmed, and I would wallow in the grief I felt. I wouldn’t eat, and I’d retreat to sleeping hours and hours on end.

Some of the nights when I did go out, however, were just as bad. It sounds insane to say this, but I often felt like I was wearing this sign around my neck everywhere I went that read “My Dad Died from Suicide.” It was like everyone was staring at me, even though they weren’t. It was like I was the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but if there’s such a thing as social claustrophobia, I felt it then.

And there are many days, even five years down the road, when I still have to scrap what’s planned to deal with unplanned grief. I’m learning to be okay with it. I’m learning that grief, just like mental illness, is unplanned and impossible to predict. Unfortunately, I finally understood what it meant for grief to take a physical toll on someone. It sapped and eroded every ounce of energy I had.

If I stayed at home, I was emotionally exhausted. And if I went out, I was emotionally exhausted. It felt like, no matter what I did, I was going to be perpetually worn out from my grief. I worried that it would never end, and to a certain extent, it hasn’t. These days are fewer and far between, but when they occur, it’s like I’m right back where it all started.

I feel angry. “Okay. I’ll be praying for you. And if there’s anything I can do for you or your family, please make sure you let me know.”

I end the phone call with undeniable sorrow. A phone call I’ve had all too often since losing Dad.

It’s a phone call with another individual who has just lost someone they love to suicide.

When I started speaking and writing publicly about my Dad’s death, I had two overarching goals: (1) to try and prevent suicide from happening to anyone else, and (2) to minister to people who are affected by suicide in the scenario that we can’t prevent it. I knew that part of my ministry would be to do something that makes me completely uncomfortable. I would need to talk with people who are grieving and distraught and try to help them make sense of their new world, their new and darkened reality. Prior to losing Dad, I didn’t even like to attend funerals because of how uncomfortable they made me. Now, I wasn’t just watching the storm from the shore; I was driving straight into it. I was saying that I would walk alongside people in their grief, no matter how uncomfortable it made me.

I’ve learned how to be more compassionate. And I’ve learned how to identify with the sorrow of others by feeling it myself. But shortly after that sorrow begins to fade, I get angry.

Not at my Dad. Never at my Dad. In fact, I can say with 100% certainty that I’ve never once been mad at my Dad. I’ve never once held him responsible for his death. My Dad was a victim of suicide, and that’s more than just fancy phrasing. My Dad was attacked by a mental illness—depression. Had he died from cancer, I wouldn’t be made at my Dad. I’d be mad at the cancer. Or I’d be mad at the heart attack. Or whatever other illness might have taken him away. Not at him—and I can’t be mad at him in this scenario either. Yes, my Dad died from suicide; but the root cause was depression. In his right mind, my Dad would have never left us. He wanted to be here to love us, and I firmly believe that. An illness warped his mind into thinking he didn’t matter.

But I do get mad at other things. I get mad at a society and culture that portrays mental illness as a personal weakness. I get mad at a culture that says that to seek help in the form of counseling or treatment is a sign of weakness. I get mad at the culture of comparison that we’ve created that says we must do more, be more, and earn more to matter, when God tells us that none of these things are actually important. I get mad at the unfair pressures that were put on my Dad and everyone else impacted by suicide. And yes, I even get mad at individuals who, I think, contributed to my Dad’s death by putting unfair pressures on him. But more than anything, I get mad at a disease that we can’t seem to figure out. I get mad because I have questions. I get angry because I want to drive down the rates of suicide in our country, and because I know that there is more we can do.

I feel angry because I feel like I’ve been robbed. I’ve told this to God many, many times. He knows how I feel, so why would I ever try to hide those feelings from him? I feel like my happiness was stolen from me on July 24, 2013, even though I’ve been able to experience it in the aftermath of losing him. I feel like a thief came and stole away the promises of all the wonderful things that were to come in my Dad’s life and life of our family. It was completely unnecessary that my Dad was gone so soon, and I feel angry that we didn’t get to have the moments together that we should have had.

As much as I hate feeling this anger, I know that it motivates me. I know that it pushes me do more to try and prevent this story from replicating itself throughout my community. I don’t care to spend hours on the phone talking to people or meeting with them for dinner when they’ve been hurt just like we have. That anger towards my enemy—mental illness—is unrelenting, but I’m channeling it into something that I hope will help others who are hurting.

But I’ve never been angry at my Dad. And I know I never will be.

Even after feeling all of this, I still feel redeemed. “Wow, I had no idea that Dad did that…” I find myself saying this all the time, because I find myself learning new things about him. The fact that I can smile while hearing these stories, even if I might simultaneously shed a tear or two, is a sign that God is guiding his hand over the ashes of my life to bring something good out of it.

It’s strange to say that I feel hopeful, because there were moments after my Dad died when I never thought I’d be hopeful about anything ever again. Those moments when life felt empty could be paralyzing.

And then, a little victory would occur. And I would start to see the redemptive power of God’s love and his work.

There were moments when I would talk with people and they would tell me a story about something my Dad had done to positively shape their lives. People he had talked to—and boy, did he talk to a lot of them. Money he had given to help people when they were down on their luck. Money he had given to causes simply because he was charitable. Tools he had lent, knowing that he would never get them back. Things he had repaired for people even when he had no idea how to repair them until he got in the thick of the job.

I’m ashamed to say this, but it took my Dad’s death for me to learn about him because there were so many good things that he did which he would have never wanted credit for. And when I hear these new stories about my Dad, it’s like he’s still alive. When I learn new things about him, it’s like new life is breathed into his memory.

Sometimes, the victories have been seemingly insignificant; but to me, they’ve held tremendous power. There was the time I went into one of my Dad’s favorite restaurants for the first time without losing him. I was actually able to focus on the great memories we had shared there together rather than obsessing over losing him. Moments when I could drive by his work without breaking down. Times when I could see his writing or go to a softball game and think positively about his life.

Those little victories began to build—one after the next, one on top of the other.

It showed me that God has been working.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve still got lots of questions for God that I plan to ask him. Why did this happen? Why did it happen to my Dad? Why did it happen to us and our family?

In spite of all my questions, I know this. I know that God didn’t cause this pain, but I do know that He’s building up the broken pieces of my life. I know that he’s bringing lots of people into my life who each take up a mantle of my Dad’s role in my life. He’ll never be replaced, but different people can live out some of his best qualities. I’ll latch onto those people, and I’ll cling closer to Jesus Christ. I’ll listen to His direction, and I’ll celebrate in the calm or in the storm. But as hard as it is for me to celebrate in the midst of a bad situation, I’ll keep searching for those little victories. Dad would have wanted it that way.

I hate this post. I hate it because it’s messy and unfocused and at times confusing.

Which is exactly why I’m leaving it the way it is. The control-freak inside of me who wants order and perfection wants to change it, but I’m letting that go. I’m letting that go because that’s the way our feelings work. Feelings are messy. Feelings are hard to control. Feelings are difficult to interpret and almost impossible to manufacture. Feelings are complicated and sometimes competing, conflicting, and contradictory.

But our feelings are real. And even when they are irrational, they are still very real.

I also hate this post because I could have written for twenty more pages about hundreds of other feelings and still never finish. I used to be a believe that we could classify or typify grief into stages; but now that I’ve had to experience it and live it, I know how fruitless any attempt is. Five stages to grief, you say? It’s not that simple. Sometimes, I experience all fives stages in twenty minutes. On any given day, I feel a hundred different feelings, and they are impossible to escape.

And all of these feelings—every single one of them—are rooted in a deep and never-failing love for my Dad. I can’t even begin to quantify how much I’ve missed him over these past five years. At Christmas, I miss being around the tree with him opening gifts. I miss having dinner with him in the evenings around our family dinner table. I miss watching him get excited about UFC fights and making fun of him for actually liking to watch them. I miss going to Kings Island with him and hearing his familiar scream of “Yeehaw!” as we rode each and every ride in the park. I miss sitting on the couch and watching episodes of The Office with him. I really, really miss those little moments.

I miss the big moments as well. There is no phrase that will capture how much I missed him on the day I proposed to Paige. I can’t even type that sentence without wanting to break down entirely. Gosh, he should have been there. He would have wanted to be there. He would have been smiling from ear to ear and talking about how Paige was too good for me (and he would have been absolutely correct). I think about how much he and Paige would have loved each other, and it bothers me every single day that I never got to introduce them. He would have loved having a daughter, and she would have been the perfect one for him.

I missed him when I graduated with my Master’s degree from Miami. My entire family was there, and it was wonderful—but I couldn’t help but gaze back in the bleachers at Yager Stadium in Oxford to see a gaping hole right next to my Mom where he should have been. I know she felt it too. Throughout all of those festivities, it hurt not having my Dad there. He was always so proud of the work I did in school from the time I was little. It made me believe I could do anything. I miss that reassurance from him.

And I obsess over the moments to come that I know he won’t be around to enjoy. For any of you who knew my Dad, you know that this is the understatement of the century: He would have made an amazing Grandpa. He was already bald and silly and loved naps—which is like half of what you need to make a great Grandpa! But my Dad loved children, primarily because he never let his inner child die. I often think about what it’s going to be like when I have children of my own. I’ll tell them about their Grandpa, but I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to paint an accurate portrait of the man he was. I hope they’ll love his memory as much as I loved him. But it’s unfair, because they deserved him. And he deserved them.

I feel love. And loss. And despair. And temporary relief. And sadness. And anger. And shock.

But all of these feelings—the good and the bad—are rooted in love. Five years have passed, and I love my Dad more and more each day. All these feelings may come and go randomly, but a consistent foundation of love has helped me face these five years one day at a time. And it will help me to face the 50 or 60 or 70 years still to come.

As daunting as the idea of facing that grief might be, it’s what is awaiting me on the other side of that gulf that gives me hope.

On the other side of all that grief and sadness, there will be an everlasting love made whole again. On the other side of that grief, there will be a man whom I recognize, smiling and welcoming me into his arms. In that moment, I’ll love never having to say “seeya, Bub” again. That day is coming, although it’s very far off.

Five years. 1,827 days. Each new day different from the last. Each day a little darker without my Dad’s bright smile and engaging charisma. He. Is. Missed. Each and every moment. And in every moment, he is loved. By me, by my family, and by everyone in the world around him that he made better.

I constantly remind myself that, although I’ve had five years of life without my Dad, I had 26 years of unconditional love that inspired a foundation that will live on forever. And Dad spent 50 wonderful years living and loving those around him in ways we should all strive to do. Sure, it wasn’t enough. Sure, there should have been more. But my Dad made a big impact in his 50 years—an impact that some people who live double the age aren’t able to make. His impact lives on in me, and I know it will live on in our world forever.

I’ve survived these five years, and I’ll survive how ever many more come my way. I’ll fight for life because of what waits on the other side of Eternity.

And no matter how long that fight is, I’ll always love my Dad.

Dad, I cry so much when I think that it’s been five years since you and I last talked. Sometimes, those tears are unstoppable. We never even went five days in this life without talking to one another. Dad, it really has felt like an eternity—but sometimes your memory is so real and so vivid that it seems like it was just yesterday when we lost you. But I know the real time. I know that it’s been five whole years since we’ve been able to be in your presence. And life simply isn’t the same without you. We all cling to your memory. We marvel at the things you built and the way you provided for our family. We laugh about the funny things you did to make life more fun. But I also weep when I think about how much life you had left to live. Dad, I’m so sorry that you were sick. I feel horrible that we couldn’t do more to help you find the cure you deserved. I’m sorry that you were robbed of the life you deserved to enjoy. I’ve felt so much guilt in losing you Dad. I know that you don’t want me to feel this way, but I just wish there was more I could have done. You deserved that, Dad. You deserved more, because you gave everything. As painful as these five years have been, Dad, I find peace in the truth of Eternity. I find comfort knowing that you are enjoying God’s eternal glory in a paradise that I can’t even begin to fathom. Dad, thank you for watching over me for these past five years. Thank you for never giving up on me—both in this life, and in the next. Thank you for giving me a lifetime of memories and an example of what fatherhood should be. I love you, Dad. I always did, and I always will. Thank you for loving me back. Until I see you again, seeya Bub.

“I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand.I and the Father are one.” John 10:28-30 (NIV)

“Selfish”

On June 22, 2018June 22, 2018 By seeyabubIn Grief, Mental Illness2 Comments

As I was driving into work this morning (I began writing this post on June 8), I received an alert from my phone from CNN. Just a day prior, I had received a similar alert regarding the Center for Disease Control’s (CDC) recent study release, which found that suicide rates have increased by 25% over the past two decades in the United States.[1] It hit home in ways I never predicted it would.

On that next morning, I looked down at my phone, and I really couldn’t believe what I saw. Television star Anthony Bourdain was dead at the age of 61 from an apparent suicide. Just earlier in the week, fashion designer Kate Spade also died from an apparent suicide.

Before I write any further, I want to first say a few things about my context in regards to these two situations. During his life, I don’t want to claim I was a fan of Bourdain’s work. I never watched his shows (not out of hostility, more just a lack of interest). In the same vein, I don’t want to portend that I was a huge fan of Kate Spade either. I’ve never carried a Kate Spade bag…or any bag for that matter. I don’t want to posthumously conflate any feelings I had towards these two individuals while they were alive. I also don’t claim to know much about their lives (other than the few things I’ve seen in the news), and I don’t claim to know all of the things they were dealing with in their lives. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about either of their lives, other than the sad, untimely ways in which they ended.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t lessen the sadness I feel when I read about these two talented individuals who are gone too soon and unnecessarily. Just because Bourdain and Spade were celebrities doesn’t make their death any more tragic than anyone else who dies from suicide. It also doesn’t make it less tragic. Behind the celebrity façade are family members, friends, colleagues, and neighbors that are left behind with questions—questions they will have for their entire lives.

What I’m writing about, however, is not Bourdain’s death, but a reaction to it. An unfortunate reaction that I think pervades most of our society when issues related to suicide arise. A reaction that is all too common. And a reaction that we must discourage in order to remove the stigma behind mental illness and suicide. Let me tell you the story.

A local radio personality in Cincinnati who I follow on Facebook (and won’t name here) reacted to the news. This individual posted the news of Bourdain’s death along with a short comment:

“So sad. Such a talent. We all have our demons. #anthonybourdain”

Shortly thereafter, a woman I’ll call Jean responded:

“I agree, but I am also ragingly ANGRY. He leaves a daughter. HOW SELFISH can someone be?!? I hope she [his daughter] is shielded from the publicity…”

And, the radio personality wrote back:

“I can’t disagree.”

He can, and he should. He should disagree. Dear friends, we need to talk about this type of reaction because it’s ill-informed, harmful, and ignorant.

First, let me say this. Although social media has many wonderful benefits, I largely despise it for what it has created in our lives. It creates an unbelievable sense of competition because it falsely projects the image that “everyone but me is living the perfect life.” In fact, I have no doubt that the increase in suicide rates in our country is largely influenced by the prevalence of social media in our lives. In many cases, I think social media disconnects people more than it actually connects them.

Along those same lines, I don’t often see the value of litigating every single comment made on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or any other network. I sure hope that every single comment I ever made on Facebook isn’t brought back to vilify me years after I wrote it. I’m not writing this post to vilify the radio host or Jean (neither of whom I’ve ever met) or anyone else. I’m writing this post as a contemplation on the larger societal attitudes towards suicide as a “selfish” act.

However, I do think it’s important to recognize that this type of attitude and speech surrounding suicide is common. I hear it often—mostly from people who don’t yet know that my own life has been darkly wounded by suicide.

Search the web for “suicide is selfish” and you’ll find any host of authors or commentators who agree with this sentiment. You’ll find articles written by people like Lesly Salazar that read “I still think suicide is selfish and no, I’m not ignorant for believing so.”

Again, my goal is not to vilify these individuals. I vehemently disagree with them. I disagree with everything they believe about suicide and mental illness. I think their positions and their statements are ill-founded, ill-conceived, hurtful, damaging, and dangerous. I think that, had their lives been touched by suicide like mine was (and I’m glad theirs hasn’t been), they might think differently and more compassionately. I write this not to tear them down as human beings. I write this to hopefully educate them. I write this post to hopefully share with them a different understanding of suicide—from an individual who lives with the pain it creates each and every day.

Suicide is not selfish, because mental illness is not selfish. It’s as simple as that.

Those of us who have lived with and loved individuals who suffer from mental illnesses like depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or any other host of illnesses know that those individuals do not consciously choose their illness. People do not choose to be depressed. People do not choose to be anxious. People do not choose to hear voices in their head that tell them they aren’t enough and never will be. People do not choose to be mentally ill.

We know that we don’t choose to be mentally ill because we can’t explain why we feel the way we do in regards to mental illnesses. And although we don’t have an extremely thorough understanding of the physical factors and mechanisms behind mental illness, we do know that there are often biological mechanisms at play. We know that there are regulating chemicals within our brain that can change over time, and the incorrect balance of those neurochemicals and transmitters can create or prolong a mental illness. And if we know that mental illnesses can have a biological root, why in God’s name would we ever, ever accuse someone of being selfish if they die as a result of their illness?

If you’ve ever had a family member die from cancer, would you ever call that person’s death “selfish”? If you’ve ever had a friend die from heart failure, would you ever call them “selfish” for their weak heart? If you have ever had anyone in your life die from an inexplicable physical illness, would you ever dare insult that person’s memory by calling their death “selfish”?

No, you wouldn’t.

And no, we shouldn’t.

I can already anticipate the retort from individuals who disagree with me: “But if we don’t say that suicide is a selfish act, it will encourage other people to do it. There will be no penalty against it. The belief that suicide is selfish actually keeps people from attempting suicide.”

Tell that to the CDC. If that’s the case, why hasn’t the stigma worked up to this point? If most of society thinks this way (and I believe they do), why have suicide rates risen by 25% in just two decades? The belief that suicide is selfish doesn’t discourage people from attempting suicide; it actually exacerbates their feelings of inadequacy, self-doubt, and unworthiness.

Dad and Grandma Bradshaw — My Dad with my Great-Grandma Lucille Bradshaw.

My Dad’s story is the perfect example. My father was the most selfless man who ever walked the planet. He did nothing for personal gain, notoriety, or ambition. My Dad was a giver. My Dad was the man who would take an entire Saturday to help someone build a porch on their back deck. When my Grandfather had a stroke that left him largely immobile, my Dad was the man who spent weeks completely redesigning his home bathroom so my Grandpa could easily navigate his wheelchair into the shower. My Dad drove a truck, and I can’t even begin to count the multitude of times that people would need my Dad’s truck to haul something. And every single time, they got the truck—and they got my Dad to help. He gave money to those in his life who needed it, even when prudence likely told him he would never see a dime of that money again. But more than anything, my Dad gave of his most precious resource—time. There was no such thing as a conversation going too long. My Dad could (and did) talk with anyone he came in contact with. His conversations were never about him, but making others around him feel loved.

And my Dad was a completely selfless Father. As a child, he spent every minute he had making sure I was entertained and happy in life, even on days when he was likely tired and exhausted from work. When I was in high school, my Mom and Dad took an entire weekend to redo my bedroom to make it more appropriate for a young man in adolescence (the motif went from childhood baseball to vintage baseball—and I loved it!). If my truck broke down in high school (which was a semi-regular occurrence), my Dad was the first person there to help me. And although I’m sure there were many other exciting places he would have rather been, he was always in the stands anytime I announced a basketball or baseball game.

He was selfless. Not selfish. And the mechanism of his death doesn’t change this.

It wouldn’t make sense for someone who has lived their entire life with a code of honor that embodies selflessness to all of a sudden abandon that. My Dad’s death was out of character because, on that morning, he was not himself. His depression had so deeply overtaken his mind that his proper thought processes were disabled. I was there that morning. I saw my Dad before he died. And I can tell you, he wasn’t acting selfish. He was acting hurt, and scared, and completely debilitated.

And here’s the key. As crazy as this may sound, the truth is that it was actually my Dad’s misguided selflessness, not selfishness, that ended his life.

Let me be clear: None of this makes my Dad’s death right, acceptable, or just. None of it. It also doesn’t make it selfish.

My Dad was such a giver that he couldn’t imagine letting those around him down. He couldn’t imagine admitting failure to those he loved and took care of. He couldn’t imagine not being able to help himself after his entire life had been dedicated to helping others. Again, none of this is an excuse. None of this justifies his death. None of this makes his death right because his death isn’t right. It was unnecessary, and premature, and unwanted.

But it wasn’t selfish.

I don’t place the blame at my Dad’s feet—nor should anyone else. Are there things I would do differently? Yes. Are there things I wish my Dad had done differently? Absolutely. Do I wish my Dad’s story wouldn’t have ended on that fateful July morning? I pray this every single night.

But his death wasn’t selfish. And no one has the right to condemn his character (or anyone else’s) with such unjustifiable certainty. They do damage to that person’s legacy; but they also do significant damage to all of those left behind.

It’s not just the person who dies from suicide that is disgraced and discouraged by a “suicide is selfish” attitude—it’s the survivors left behind to grapple with their grief that are just as negatively impacted by this type of attitude.

I want you to imagine this scenario as you read and feel the intensity of the moment I’m describing. Your Father, the man you loved with every fiber of your being, has just died. From suicide. A vibrant, enthusiastic life has just been ripped away without warning. One minute, you’re hugging the broad shoulders that have carried the burdens of your entire family for a generation, and the next you’re standing next to his casket. You look down at that casket and the hundreds of people who have gathered to say goodbye, and you wish more than anything that your Dad would just get up—but he won’t. He’ll never come home again. You’ve cried more tears in a few days than you ever have in your entire life combined, and your pain and grief are inexplicable and inescapable. You’ve had many sleepless nights, and you’ll continue to have them for as long as you live. Just when you think life is establishing a new normal, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror as the horror of those moments replays over and over and over again. All of this is ahead of you as you stand at that funeral, and the weight is crushing.

And then, someone comes up to the casket. They shake your hand, express their condolences, and then say this:

“What a selfish act.”

How do you feel? Did it help?

No, it doesn’t—and it never will.

I’m thankful that this type of reaction never happened to me directly, but reading comments filled with a self-righteous fervor that accuse a suicide victim of being selfish from people I don’t even know is just as hurtful. I’ll return to Jean’s comment and ask you this: If she was so concerned with the well-being of Anthony Bourdain’s daughter, why would she immediately castigate his memory by completely minimizing his suffering? If Jean was so concerned about Anthony Bourdain’s daughter, why would she make a comment that will do absolutely nothing to help this young woman grieve? I have no doubt that Anthony Bourdain’s daughter, like me, loved her Father. By calling his unfortunate death “selfish,” Jean’s comment doesn’t help the grieving—it hurts and wounds them.

I go to bed every single night wishing that my Dad was still around. If people, like Jean, think that somehow letting me know that my Dad’s death was selfish will heal me from my grief, I’m here to tell them it won’t.

Suicide is not selfish, but that doesn’t automatically make it selfless either. An act can be neither selfless or selfish, and we shouldn’t be tricked into the fallacy of outright-certainty in an area as delicate as this.

But suicide is devastating. And it’s life-altering. Suicide is debilitating. It’s irreversible. It’s awful. And terrible. And it’s never, ever okay.

But it’s not selfish. And it’s not selfless. It’s just awful.

I don’t believe individuals who die from suicide are selfish at their core. They are suffering. Suffering from a disease that is awful and confusing. A disease we don’t understand.

So, when we don’t understand the complexities of this life, we shouldn’t self-righteously claim that we do.

I don’t know Jean’s story, but based on her attitude, I highly doubt that her life has ever been touched by suicide. And guess what? I’m really, really thankful for that. I don’t want anyone to ever have to live through the pain my family has endured after losing my Dad. But because we’ve lived through it, and because we knew the man my Dad was, we don’t talk about suicide like she does. We don’t say my Dad’s death was selfish because it wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong—we pray and wish every single day that it hadn’t happened. But it wasn’t selfish.

I’ve written this before, but I’ll say it again: Your words matter. The words you choose each and every day have tremendous power—power to heal pain, but also to inflict it. But words are more than just words. They reveal an attitude. They reveal beliefs. They reveal core values. When self-righteous individuals scream with certainty that suicide is selfish, it causes the survivors of suicide to question everything about our loved ones. Did they really love us? Did they really mean it when they said they cared? Were they selfish?

Survivors of suicide have enough to deal with when it comes to grief. We don’t need the haughty judgement of individuals who claim to have all the answers to explain why our loved ones are no longer here. We feel that pain every single day, and it’s actually selfish for others to minimize our loved ones’ suffering.

My faith in Jesus Christ teaches me that I’m not meant to have all the answers in this life. I shouldn’t claim to be all-knowing, because when I do, I’m claiming to be God. I don’t know why suicide happens. I don’t know why God allows mental illness to persist. So, I don’t claim to have all the answers. Corrie ten Boom said it best: “A religion that is small enough for our understanding would not be big enough for our needs.”

So, unlike all the people shouting about the selfishness of suicide, I won’t stand on the mountaintop and claim to completely understand the suffering in the world around me. Instead, I’ll attempt to be compassionate. Instead, I’ll try and realize that individuals—selfless individuals—are hurting without being able to explain why.

And as hard as it might be, I won’t give up on people like Jean. Or anyone who currently believes that suicide is selfish. Even though their words cut through my heart like a knife, I’ll still believe that they can learn and grow. Because as hard as it is for me to admit, there was probably a time in my life before my Dad died from suicide where I thought just like they did. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve changed and I’ve grown—and they can, too. I’ll still believe that Jesus is not quite done with them yet, just as he’s not yet done with me. I’ll still believe that they will someday realize that suicide isn’t a willing act, but one that occurs when the body and mind are in a frenetic, uncontrollable, irrational state. Because I’m still a work in progress, I’ll believe they are too.

But more than anything, I’ll just keep loving my Dad because he selflessly loved me.

Dad, It hurts my heart tremendously when I think that there are people out there who think your death is selfish. It pains me when I hear individuals say that death from suicide is selfish because they didn’t understand your pain. They didn’t see the despair in your eyes on that last day. They didn’t see the years that you suffered. They didn’t see how badly you wanted to be healthy. They didn’t live with the unnecessary shame that you lived with for so long. Dad, none of this makes your death and absence any easier. None of this makes the pain of losing you any less real. And yes, I wish things had gone differently on the morning of July 24, 2013—for you, for me, and for all of us. But you suffered from a disease that you didn’t understand. A disease that not even medical professionals completely understand. You died because this disease took over your brain, and I hope you know that I understand this. It doesn’t make your death right, and more than anything I wish you were still here, living the life you always lived to the fullest. But I’ve never been angry with you for your death. I’ve never loved you any less—and I never will. Dad, you are not defined by your death, but by the tremendously selfless life you led. I’m so sorry if you ever felt like you weren’t enough for us, Dad. You were always enough. You lived a completely selfless life, and I wish I was able to remind you of that. Until that day, I’ll keep fighting for your legacy. I’ll keep fighting, alongside God, to redeem the pain of losing you in an effort to try and prevent this pain in the lives of others. And until that day when I can tell you just how selfless you were, seeya Bub.

“Those who think they know something still have a lot to learn.” 1 Corinthians 8:2 (GW)

[1]https://www.cdc.gov/vitalsigns/suicide/

Paige

On June 1, 2018 By seeyabubIn Foundation Posts2 Comments

This past weekend, something magical and miraculous happened.

I asked the love of my life, Paige Marie Garber, to become my wife.

The greatest miracle? She said yes! And I’m the luckiest man alive to know that I’ll get to spend the rest of my life loving her.

Paige came into my life unexpectedly to say the least. There were so many times and moments where I was cornered by doubt and skepticism when it came to finding love. After searching and searching for the woman that God wanted for me, I was honestly starting to wonder whether or not the gift of a significant other would ever happen for me. I would hear people say over and over again that true love would happen when I least expected it. True love, they said, would come about when I wasn’t searching for it. Every time I heard this, I would laugh and roll my eyes, and nervously curse those people who thought that was helpful for me to hear.

And just like they said, that’s exactly what happened.

I cherish the unexpected when it comes to the way our paths crossed with one another. I know that God has been orchestrating little life moments all throughout my 31 years with the knowledge of eventually bringing us together. I know that God had a master plan, slowly but surely fitting all the puzzle pieces together at exactly the right moment.

Paige has supported me in ways that I can’t even begin to articulate. Life is more exciting and more adventurous because she is in it. She makes me laugh (sometimes unintentionally), and she can put a smile on my face like no one else can. When life has broken me down, she builds me back up and strengthens my confidence. She is the companion I’ve longed for my entire adult life, and being able to propose to her was the greatest honor of my lifetime. Saturday was a day I’ll remember as long as I live.

Saturday’s engagement was full of tremendous happiness—just as the past two years have been filled with happiness since Paige came into my life. When I knew that I wanted to ask Paige to be my wife, I felt that excitement and happiness, but I also felt a tremendous sense of sadness and longing desperation.

Because more than anything, I desperately wanted my Dad to be there. For me, for Paige, and for us.

For those of you who know Paige and knew my Dad, you probably know that they would have been two peas in a pod. They are alike in so many ways, and at times I’m reminded that this is likely one of the reasons that God put her into my life—to fill a portion of the void in my heart that my Dad’s loss left behind.

I often think about what it would have been like to introduce Paige to my Dad. He would have been his usual, gleeful self when he met her. I can see him smiling from ear to ear with that familiar twinkle in his eye when he saw her. I would bet my next paycheck on the joke he would have delivered—“Well, I see you are way out of his league!” He’s definitely right about that. She’s a blessing that I don’t deserve, but that’s what makes it special.

I think about what it would have been like to watch Paige get to know my Dad over time. He would have given her one of his ridiculous nicknames. In all likelihood, he would have called her Paigey-Waigey. And, in all likelihood, I would have rolled my eyes at him every single time he said it and begged him to stop. I can picture the two of them cracking jokes at my expense—likely in regards to my lack of athletic ability—and laughing hysterically with one another. Paige is also a tremendous athlete, as was my Dad. I am a tremendously horrible athlete. They definitely would have done anything they could to rub this in my face. Paige is a cryer when she laughs, and I can guarantee she would have been in tears (good ones) around my Dad all of the time. Whether it was jokes at my expense or ridiculously stupid Dad-humor that my Dad would have expensed, it would have been a life full of laughter around the two of them.

Both Paige and my Dad have a mutual love and appreciation for all things nature. From parks to puppies, Paige has always loved being surrounded by God’s creation. Secretly, I have a fear that I am going to be that husband who comes home and finds that his wife has picked up six puppies on her way home from work because she “just couldn’t say no to them!” (Note to Paige: Mentioning this on the blog is not an endorsement for you to actually do this.) My Dad had a way with animals that I’ve never seen before. Our family dogs always looked to my Dad as their favorite human. My Dad was able to befriend dogs in our neighborhood, horses on nearby farms, and I even have one picture of him petting—yes petting—a baby deer in the park close to our family home. Both Paige and my Dad just loved being in nature. My third date with Paige was at Sharon Woods, and I remember watching an indescribable sense of peace wash over her as we navigated the trails, creeks, and waterfalls (I tell myself it was my presence, not the natural surroundings, that provided this peace, but I digress…). My Dad had that same sense of calm and wonder any time he was in nature—which was often. My Dad would find any excuse to be outdoors, even if his son would claim it was “too hot” or “too sticky” or “too-not-television”. I think my Dad, and Paige, both feel that they are at their best when they are taking in God’s creation—and I’m thankful that they both remind me to slow down, look around, and join in the wonder.

My Dad loved life, and he loved injecting fun into his life and the lives of others in any way he could. Paige has that same fun-loving attitude. It’s one of the many things I love about her, and I love that she’s able to reflect my Dad’s spirit having never even met him. The journey through life with my Dad was always full of fun and laughter, which has taught me to value the wonderful moments in life I’ve been able to share with Paige. It made my decision to ask for her hand in marriage an easy one, but my Dad’s death also made the emotional tumult of this unique season of life even more intense.

All throughout this journey, from the moment I decided I wanted to marry Paige to the moment she said yes, I felt tremendous joy; but it was a joy accompanied by sadness because I really, really wanted to have my Dad there for everything. In each and every moment, I wanted him there right alongside me. In moments like this, a boy needs his father. My Dad deserved to be there for all of it.

There are so many things that a boy relies on his Dad for throughout this life. When my Dad passed away, I knew there were going to be many, many moments throughout my life when I needed his guidance, wisdom, and help. After he died, I felt the shock of his being gone rather quickly. When things would go wrong at my house, I wanted to call him to get his advice…and likely talk him into doing the repairs. When I finished my graduate school studies in 2014, I wanted my Dad to be there to join in the celebration; but he wasn’t there. I wanted his career guidance and advice when job opportunities started to become available, but I couldn’t call him. Every time I had a new announcing opportunity come my way, I wanted to share the great news with my Dad because I knew how happy he would have been.

But he wasn’t there, and he’s not here. He’s not here for any of that. I would obsess over this fact, and every day, no matter how much time may pass, I constantly have to remind myself, painfully, of his absence.

I’ve felt his absence in every moment, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt the weight of his absence as severely as I have throughout my decision to marry Paige.

I knew early on that Paige was the woman God had promised me. I could sense that she was my person—the person meant to compliment my shortcomings, build me into a better man, and journey with me throughout the ups and downs of this world. It didn’t take long for Paige to show me that she was a treasure greater than any other, and although I knew this in the deepest crevices of my heart, I still wanted to be able to talk with someone about how I felt.

I desperately wanted to talk with my Dad.

Don’t get me wrong—I had plenty of wonderful people to talk to about my love for Paige. I remember telling my Mom about Paige on a trip we took to Gulf Shores. I shared how special she was on that night, and in all those nights to come, and she’s loved Paige just like she would a daughter. I was able to talk with other relatives and close friends about my love for this amazing, spectacular woman. I had lots of amazing people who were willing to talk with me and listen to me and help me feel loved. I’ll always appreciate their wise counsel.

But sometimes, a boy just needs to talk to his Father. There is a connection between a father and a son that is unlike any other—not any better, just different and unique. When that void is there, the emotional pain can be very distressing. It’s helpful for young males to get guidance from older males, just like it’s helpful for young females to have guidance from older females. Our trajectories have similarities because men and women are different, and there’s a sense of safety in that similarity. This is why I needed to talk to my Dad. I needed to tell him that after many years of searching, doubt, and questions, God had answered my prayers and given me a wonderful woman that I wanted to marry.

I also wanted my Dad’s advice on how to navigate this journey because he had done it so well himself. I’ll be honest—I don’t know as much as I should about how my Dad came to know that my Mom, Becky, was the perfect woman for him. We never really talked about that in our time together, but had he been around when I decided to propose to Paige, I’m sure he would have shared his story. My Father found the perfect woman for him—a woman who complimented him wonderfully, encouraged him, and served as a faithful partner for nearly 30 wonderful years. My Mom deserved my Dad, and my Dad deserved my Mom. They were two Godly influences in my life they were built to serve one another in very unique ways. They taught me the value of hard work, the absolute necessity of kindness, and the importance of service and compassion. I know that they couldn’t have done this individually. These messages only could have wrung true had they come from both of my parents. It’s no easy feat to pick a mate in this life. In fact, it’s probably the biggest decision one could ever make. I would have loved to pick my Dad’s brain about how he knew my Mom was the woman God had sent for him. We never got to have that conversation, but I’m sure it would have given me solace, peace, and comfort throughout my own journey. Dad would have reassured me with his enthusiasm, kind heart, and unique sense of humor. He would have been the Father to me that I needed as I made that important decision.

But he couldn’t be there, and I hate it.

I vividly remember the night that I bought Paige’s ring. It was the night before Valentine’s Day, and with my chief-negotiator Chris Beatty at my side, we perused diamonds and settings and learned more about precious gems than I could have ever imagined.

The first diamond they showed me was the diamond I bought for Paige. It sparkled beautifully, just like her smile has done since the moment I first met her in 2016. The diamond was flawless, just like I see her. It was a stone worthy of only the most perfect woman, and I wanted to give it to her as a promise that she deserves only the best of me and all the things that this world can provide. That diamond ring, as beautiful as it may be, is still not enough to tell her how I feel about her.

After buying that ring, I remember getting in the truck and driving home. And I remember crying forcefully on that ride home, because I just wanted to call my Dad and tell him all about it. My Dad had been through the process of looking at rings and buying one for my Mom. It would have been so reassuring to hear his story. In fact, had he been alive, I probably would have had my Dad right next to my side as I picked out the ring. Those of you who knew my Dad know that anything he bought was always of the highest quality. From home improvement gadgets to clothes and gifts, my Dad was a man obsessed with quality.

Even though I never got to show it to him, I think my Dad would have been proud of the ring that I bought. He would have looked it over and asked ridiculously annoying questions about the materials to the salespeople, but ultimately he would have been excited to see me, his only son, buy a ring for the girl I love. And he would have done all this because he loved me, and because I know he would have loved Paige.

Shortly after buying the ring, I knew that I wanted my Mom to be the first person that I told about it. Over lunch at High Street Café in Hamilton just a few days later, I shared the good news with my Mom. I told her that Paige was the woman I wanted to marry, and that I had bought a ring to show her my love. We were both extremely happy, but we were also very, very sad in that moment as we thought about how badly we wanted my Dad to be there.

We were sad because we were sitting at a table for two, when we should have been sitting at a table for three.

Yes, the happiness was there in that moment. The happiness for a bright future filled with love and excitement. But you can’t experience that happiness after losing a loved one without simultaneously feeling sadness at their absence. And this, dear friends, was that double-edged moment. This was that complicated moment of undeniable happiness and inescapable heartache, grief, and longing.

And then, of course, there was the proposal. I’ve always appreciated theatrics, and I wanted to do something big and romantic that would show Paige just how special she is to me.

I proposed at the Joe Nuxhall Miracle League Fields (JNMLF), a place that is very special to me, and also a place that Paige has come to know and love throughout our relationship. I serve on the Board of Directors for the JNMLF’s, and Paige has accompanied me there for numerous events. I’ve seen the goodness of her heart as she watches individuals with physical and developmental disabilities play the game of baseball with a smile on her face and a tear in her eye. Watching her there the first time we visited was also one of those cornerstone moments in our relationship when I knew that she had a heart for those who are less fortunate.

So, I orchestrated what I hoped would be a miraculous (and hopefully surprising) night for her at the fields.

After an Oscar-worthy phone call from Kim Nuxhall, I convinced Paige that we needed to stop down at the fields and reset the security system before we went to a graduation party that evening. I had to grip the steering wheel of my truck tighter than I’ve ever gripped it before so she couldn’t see how bad my hands were shaking.

As we approached the fields, Paige and I got out of the truck as I slipped a small, black box into my left pocket. We slowly walked up the stairs to the concession stand under the main pavilion as the sun was setting to our left. Feigning confusion, I looked at the old-school concession board on the wall and said to Paige, “Something looks off on that board…”

Slowly, Paige scanned the board until she saw the message:

TODAY’S SPECIAL

DIAMOND RING

JUST SAY YES

5-26-2018

“Why does it say diamond ring?” she said to me nervously, and then, I placed my hands on her shoulders, and I told her how I felt about her. As I did this, photos of us together began to scroll on the video boards at the fields. Then, I got down on one knee (one very nervous, shaky knee) and asked her to marry me. She said yes, and all the promise of the next chapter of my life overwhelmed me with earth-shattering joy. I was able to envision our life together and see years into the future—and I absolutely loved what I saw.

After we embraced and held one another crying (don’t let her fool you, she definitely cried more than I did…), I rapped my knuckles on the walls of the concession stand. The concession windows flew open, and our families and friends greeted us with a cheer. Even if she knew I was going to propose, I don’t think she saw this part coming! I love Paige for a number of reasons, but her love of family and those around her has always been unbelievably impressive to me. The way she loves my Dad, even though she has never met him and never will in this life, is indescribable. Watching her eyes light up as she hugged each of our family members brought me tremendous joy.

And in my head, as I stood behind her, I pictured what it would have been like to watch her hug my Dad.

As our family members started to trickle out to the after-party, our dear friend Megan took some amazing pictures of us at the fields. As we smiled and posed for shot after shot, Megan asked us if there were any other pictures we would like to get before we left.

“There is one more, if you don’t care…” I said to Megan nervously.

Paige, Megan, and I walked around to the side of the concession stand towards the memorial wall, a spot at the Joe Nuxhall Miracle League Fields that is very important to me. On that red brick wall is a silver plaque graciously donated by Kim Nuxhall and the Nuxhall family that reads “In Memory of Scott Bradshaw”. They donated it shortly after my Dad died, and it makes me feel his presence each time I’m there. Every time I’m at the fields, I walk by that plaque, run my hands across the metal surface, and say a little prayer for my Dad.

On the day when I asked Paige to marry me, the most important day of my life thus far, I wanted to make sure I honored my Dad the only way I know how. With one of his handkerchiefs in my back pocket, Paige and I each put a hand on the metal plaque that bears my Dad’s name: Paige’s diamond-clad hand on the right side, and my hand on the left. I worked to hold back tears as Megan’s camera snapped away. All of the emotion of the past few months and the months and years to come were just brimming at the surface. All of the pent up feelings of loss and despair were right there with me; but so was my Dad’s spirit. I could feel him there with us. I could sense that we weren’t alone in that moment.

And I could sense, more than anything, that we will never be without him in these really important moments to come throughout our life together.

On the ride home that evening after a party at Paige’s parents’ home, we talked about what a whirlwind of a day it had been. Numerous times, we just looked at each other with surprise and shock and said, “We’re engaged!” We talked about how great it was to have the privacy of the proposal but also share it with our families. Then, I shared with Paige how much I wished my Dad could have been there, and naturally began to tear up. I watched as her hand (much shinier than it previously was) slid over and gripped my forearm. I turned and saw the tears in her eyes as well, as I’m confident she knew this moment would come at some point in the evening.

And that’s another thing I love about Paige. From the moment I first shared the details of my Father’s death with her, she has shown me a compassion and care that surpasses understanding. The sense of nervousness I felt when I proposed to Paige was very similar to the night that I told her that my Father had died from suicide. Having just started to get to know one another for a few months, I didn’t know how she would react. I didn’t know how she would look at my Father, never having known him, with this revelation in mind. But on that night, just like she did in the truck after I proposed, Paige put her arms around my shoulders and comforted me. She understood that my Father was not defined by his depression or his death. She believed that my Father, the man who raised me and loved me into existence, was sick with a disease that he couldn’t understand. Watching and feeling her reaction was one of the most important moments of our entire relationship. It led us to this moment, and it will serve as the foundation of all the moments we have to come during a lifetime of happiness and unconditional love.

Of all the things I’m fortunate to have in this life, I’ve always said I’m most fortunate to be the son of Scott and Becky Bradshaw. Now, I can add one more title to the list. I’m the luckiest man alive because I’ll get to call Paige Garber my wife. Although she never met my Dad, I know that she still loves him—and that’s the greatest type of love anyone could ever give. It’s unconditional, Christ-centered, and life-changing. It’s the same type of love that my Dad gave to everyone he knew. It’s the love I still feel him providing from Heaven. It’s the type of love that sustains, builds up, and encourages in spite of difficult circumstances. It’s a love I wish I could have reminded my Dad of on his last day here with us.

An engagement unites individuals together, and in doing so, it’s brought Paige into my family. I wish, more than anything, that my Dad could have been a Father-in-law to Paige. They would have been a match made in heaven.

But I’m confident that my Dad, from Heaven, is telling Paige just how much he loves her. In that way, he’ll always be here with us. For these reasons, and so many more, I’m thankful for the love of my fiancée, the love of a Father, and the promise that we’ll all be together again someday.

Dad, You would have absolutely loved Paige. You are so alike in so many ways. I often think about what it would have been like to watch the two of you interact with one another—laughing at the same jokes, enjoying sitting around a bonfire together, and just generally appreciating the beauty and simplicity that life together affords. It would have been one of the greatest honors of my life to introduce her to you, but I would have felt that same honor in introducing you to her. Dad, I desperately wish that you could have been here for our relationship. I wish that you could have given me the wisdom and guidance that only a father can provide to a son when it comes to love and marriage. But even though you aren’t here with us right now, I can still feel your presence. I can still feel you prodding me along and helping me make the right moves in this life. I can imagine you would have said to me soon after meeting Paige, “You better hurry up and propose before she wises up!” And Dad, you’re exactly right. She is more than I deserve and more than I could ever hope for, and I thank God for that. On the night I proposed, and every night for that matter, I’ve wanted to have you in our life and in our relationship. You may not be here with us, but in so many ways you are here with us. Your memory lives on in everything I will do as a husband, and I’m thankful that I could watch your patient, kind example over the many years that you loved Mom and me. You are here with me, and you always will be. I promise that no matter how life might change, I’ll never, ever let your memory go. Thanks for loving me from afar, Dad. Thanks for loving us—all of us. I love you, and wish we were here together. Until that day when we are united again, seeya Bub.

“He who finds a wife finds what is good and receives favor from the Lord.” Proverbs 18:22 (NIV)

“Let The Young Guys Play: Guest Blog by Dave Hicks

On June 22, 2017June 22, 2017 By seeyabubIn Guest BlogLeave a comment

Ty: There is a deep mystery in my life. One that plagues me to this day…

How is it possible that my Dad could raise a son who was such a terrible, horrible athlete?

I’ve written on this topic in a number of different posts, mainly because so many of my childhood exploits involve my failures as an athlete. I should probably link to a post so you can sample it, but it’s impossible to link to so many different stories, because my lack of athleticism has been a frequent topic of conversation on this forum.

This probably surprises you if you knew my Dad, because he was a naturally gifted athlete. My Dad was a super-speedy runner, which served him well at about any sport he tried. My Dad absolutely loved playing basketball. Even as he aged, he could beat most of the younger players up and down the court at our weekly church pick-up games on Monday night. He was a natural wide-receiver for backyard football games because he could outrun any coverage. Even when he played kickball with my neighborhood friends, it was easy to see just how fast he really was. He could scoot around the basepaths quicker than anyone. I guess the moniker “Scooter” was well earned.

More than any sport, however, I think my Dad excelled at baseball and, later in life, softball. I will always remember my Dad as a softball player. From the time I was little, I remember tagging along with him to the North End softball diamonds on Joe Nuxhall Boulevard and watching him play with our church teams. I remember the countless weekend tournaments he played in, usually always playing for a team that had a legitimate shot to win. At least once a week, and usually multiple nights, my Dad was having fun at the softball diamonds: playing in some games, and usually talking with his teammates for hours after.

I, on the other hand, just hoped that if I went with him as a little boy that he would take me for a Flubb’s ice cream afterwards.

Most guys who play softball annoy me beyond belief because they think that being good at softball means being able to hit a ball over the fence (even though it’s an underhand pitch, but I digress…). My Dad, however, took a different approach to the game of softball. Never the power hitter, my Dad learned how to “hit it where they ain’t.” He could place his hits, which is extremely valuable in softball when defense really isn’t a popular option. Then, my Dad would speed around the bases, legging out doubles and triples on a regular basis. In fact, my Dad never hit a homerun over the fence one time in his entire career…but he had a few inside-the-parkers which, in my opinion, is even more impressive.

Where most softball players begin to tire out as they age, my Dad just got better and better. Always wearing an 11 across his back (he only wore numbers that were “symmetrical”), Dad continued to play softball until the week he died. I made it a regular habit to go and watch his games as often as I could (still, secretly, hoping for that ice cream). I look back on the times that I didn’t go to his games for one reason or another, and I wish that I could turn back the clock and see him play once more.

As he got older, however, my Dad did a curious thing. He would take himself out of the lineup. I would show up to his games, knowing he was just as talented as anyone on the field, and I would see him sitting on the bench with his hands by his side in his uniform, watching the game intensely.

When that was the case, I would always go and sit next to him and ask him why he wasn’t playing, and I would always get the same answer from him:

“I’d rather let the young guys play.”

I would shake my head at my Dad and get mad at him when he gave me this answer. Oftentimes, I would look out onto the field and see the player who had taken his position in left center. And usually on cue, that particular player would misplay a routine fly ball or miss the cut-off man on a throw to the infield. It was infuriating because I knew my Dad, even as he aged, was better in every aspect of the game.

Late last week, right when I needed it most, my pastor, Dave Hicks of Walden Ponds Community Church, sent in a story about my Dad using the “Scott Stories” feature at SeeyaBub.com. It gave me a different perspective on why my Dad did what he did, and it reminded me of why he was such a special person. I’d like to let Dave share that memory with you.

Dave: I met Scott Bradshaw in 1987 at a softball tournament in Hamilton, Ohio. I was asked to play with a bunch of guys from his church. It was the first time I played with that team before, so I was a little nervous. I remember being casually introduced to the team by the guy who asked me to play (coincidentally, he was the same guy who set my wife and I up on a date for the first time) and I put my stuff on the bench. I hadn’t warmed up yet, but was too shy to ask any of those guys to throw before the game started. My plan was to just to pretend that my shoes needed to be re-tied so I could keep my head down and wait for the first pitch.

As I was trying to be inconspicuous, Scott came over, introduced himself, and asked if I needed to warm up. I accepted his offer and, at that moment, began a friendship that would last for decades to come.

As I got to know Scott more and more, I noticed that his friendliness to me that summer day was just another day in the life of Scott Bradshaw. I know it sounds like a cliche, but Scott literally never met a stranger. And if you remained in his presence for more than a few minutes, he quickly became someone you wanted to know better.

Scott has his mischievous side, as well. One time, I attempted to install a piece of linoleum in the kitchen of my in-laws’ house. I am not a handy guy at all, but I gave it a shot. When I finished, it couldn’t have been more of a disaster if I had done it blindfolded. My father-in-law called Scott and he came over to help salvage the project. As soon as he arrived, Scott started laughing, along with my father-in-law, at the mess that I had created. And, because it was Scott, I laughed along with him.

You see, a person couldn’t get mad at Scott because you knew it was never malicious. It always came from a place of love. So, from that failed project on, Scott managed to work that story into conversation as often as possible. And, as I did that day, I would laugh with him every time he told it.

Normally, people don’t enjoy being teased. But, today as I remember those moments with Scott, I would give just about anything to laugh with you again, even if it is at my expense. And, I would give anything to be able to say to you, as you always said to your son, Tyler, “Seeya, bub.”

Ty: I look at Dave, who is now the pastor of my church and someone who challenges me to be a better follower of Jesus each and every day, and I see the impact that my Dad made on him. I see how a simple gesture, like saying hello to the new guy on the softball team, could make a huge difference. And it makes me feel bad about ever questioning why he would voluntarily sit out of a game.

To my Dad, softball was fun; but life was always bigger.

My Dad made a habit of letting the young guys play and making them feel welcome on the team because he knew how much it would mean to them to have somebody as good as my Dad give up his spot for them. He was validating them. He was making them feel that they mattered. And he knew that, even if they made mistakes, they needed to play and learn to get better.

But my Dad didn’t just give up his spot for that player. You could watch him and you knew right away that he was making an effort to support and coach that player from the dugout as he sat and watched. If they made a good play, Dad would run out of the dugout during the middle of the inning and give them a high five and a pat on the butt. If they made a mistake, he would talk to them when they came in the dugout and give them some pointers—but people always took his criticism well because they knew it came from a heart that wanted to make them better, not a heart that wanted to show off how much he knew. Dad would shout base-running instructions or coach third base, and even though he wasn’t technically in the lineup, he was still in the game.

I have many words I use to describe my Dad: thoughtful, considerate, kind, loving, hardworking, faithful, hilarious, and many, many more. But if I had to pick just one word, I think that word would be humble. My Dad was well-liked by so many people because he was one of the most humble individuals I’ve ever met. And although there were many places throughout our community where my Dad was well-liked, he was extremely admired by those who played softball with him—and even those he competed against.

The beautiful part about all of this is that my Dad found a way to be humble while never losing his competitive spirit—and never failing to teach those younger players. One of my favorite memories of my Dad is when he played on a church team that had a number of young players (mostly high schoolers) who were some of the most egotistical athletes I have ever seen. They thought that softball would be easy because they had some athletic ability, but time and time again at the plate and in the field they showed athletic ability was not enough to outweigh stupidity (yes, I said it). They swung for the fences every single time…and 90% of the time their swings would end in an easy fly ball for the opposing outfielders. They would make simple base running errors, and my scoresheet was absolutely littered with “E’s” from their mistakes in the field. And they would often violate one of my Dad’s cardinal rules by failing to run out a ball in play regardless of whether or not you were likely to reach first base.

There was one player in particular (I’ll call him Shawn here) who had a sense of arrogance about every single thing he ever did. My Dad would often get frustrated with him because he was living in a dream world in which he thought he was God’s gift to softball. Oftentimes, he was God’s gift to the other team.

One night, Shawn made a comment about how he could outrun my Dad. My Dad just smiled, but then Shawn continued to make the comment. So, having heard enough, my Dad told Shawn he would race him down the line after the game was over. The team gathered eagerly, and I said a quick prayer that Dad wouldn’t injure himself. Shawn ran harder than I had ever see him run in his life once we said “Go!”, but he was still a good two lengths behind my Dad when they crossed the finish line. Shawn’s face was red and strained, but my Dad looked like he was just getting started. He made it look effortless. He did a little strutting and a dance I can still picture today, gave out some high fives, grabbed his ball bag, and we got in the truck. I’ll admit (and ask for forgiveness) that I probably said a few “non-Christian” things about that little jerk adversary on our ride home. But Dad just smiled, knowing he had proven his point without completely humiliating his competitor.

I think my Dad did this, to show that young punk…I mean, child of God, that he wasn’t all he thought he was. My Dad did this not to show him up, but to show him humility. To show him that in life, there is always room for improvement.

My Dad really was playing some of the best softball of his entire life right up until his death. He played with Dave on the Walden Ponds Community Church team, Dave often in left field with my Dad next to him in left center. When the team got word of my Dad’s death, the coach of the team, Mel, went out and bought a bunch of white sweatbands, just like the ones my Dad always used to wear on his arms. Mel sat down and drew the number “11” on each of those sweatbands, and with a heavy heart, the team went out and played for the first time without my Dad—each player wearing those handmade sweatbands.

I have one of those sweatbands that I’ll cherish forever. I have trouble going to softball games now, because it’s just too hard for me to go and look into the outfield and not see my Dad. But I hear memories from people like Dave, and I think back to the numerous people that Dad came in contact with, and I know that he played the game the way it was meant to be played. And I’m not talking about softball. I’m talking about the game of life.

Dad, Even though you weren’t able to mold me into a terrific athlete (yes, I’m going to blame this on you), you never quit teaching me that athletic competition was just a vehicle to deliver some of life’s most important lessons. You taught me about humility, hard work, dedication, courage, and competition. You knew that, when you compete, there are lots of people watching how you react to adverse situations. And you always, always made sure that your character was on display. I wish I had been a better athlete because I wanted to make you proud, but I hope you know how much I enjoyed watching you compete…and how much I desperately wanted to be like you. Dad, you made a tremendous impact on people each and every time you played. Thank you for being a character-giant in my life. Thank you for always giving me a solid example of Christ-centered love to look up to. And thank you, seriously, for putting up with my pathetic arm when we would toss. When I’m perfected in Heaven, our games of toss will be a lot more fun. And until that day, seeya Bub.

“Nevertheless, the one who receives instruction in the Word should share all good things with their instructor.” Galatians 6:6 (NIV)

Dave Hicks

Senior Pastor, Walden Ponds Community Church of the Nazarene

Dave serves as the Pastor of Walden Ponds Community Church of the Nazarene, located in Fairfield Township. For decades, Dave has served in youth and adult ministry at the local and district level, preparing the hearts and minds of young Christians, and encouraging them to serve others. Dave’s belief that “God is good, all the time” drives his work in the church, as he continues to grow and serve the local congregation at Walden Ponds with an innovative approach to Christian ministry.

Words Matter

On May 26, 2017May 26, 2017 By seeyabubIn Grief, Mental Illness4 Comments

“How do you tell people…how your Dad died?”

I sat across the table at a Panera from a good friend of mine. Unfortunately, we sat at that table together as victims of a similar tragedy, having each lost a parent to suicide. We talked that night about many things, especially the difficulties we encountered as grief stayed constant while life moved on.

I closed my eyes and nodded my head, because I remember asking myself this same question. I remember struggling to find the words when people asked why my Dad died so young. When I looked across that table, I saw a man walking through the same horrible questions and doubt that I had been dealing with. I would have done anything in that moment to take his pain away, because living a life after suicide makes even the most simple moments ridiculously complex. It’s hard to find the words to describe the death of a loved one when suicide enters the picture.

I thank God that, although eventually and painfully, I found the words I needed.

“My Dad committed suicide.”

“My Dad took his own life.”

“My Dad died from a suicide.”

I just didn’t know how to say it.

In the week or so after my Dad died, as crazy as this might sound, I would stand in front of my mirror at home and I would practice saying these things aloud. I would look at my own eyes, often swollen and tear-stained, and say these words to myself. Each and every time, they would break my heart.

No matter what variation I came up with, however, I just couldn’t find a way to do this. I couldn’t bring myself to say these words, mainly because they felt so unnatural. I never, never convicted my Dad of his death. I never, at any moment, held my Dad responsible for what happened to him in his battle with depression. I know that every survivor of suicide can’t say this (and that’s completely okay), but I was never at any moment mad at my Dad for what happened to him. He was not responsible for his death—depression was. Depression, a horrible and difficult to comprehend illness, stole him from his family and everything he loved. My Dad didn’t “commit” anything.

During my years in graduate school, I learned many things about life that extended far beyond the training I was receiving for a career as a college educator. One of the lessons that our faculty members constantly tried to drive home is a rather simple one: words matter. The words we choose to use each day matter. The words we use to define other people and their identities are important. It seems like a simple lesson, but I don’t think I realized just how meaningful this truth was until it hit home with my Dad’s death.

Now, in the midst of the greatest turmoil of my life, I found myself struggling each and every day to tell people how my Dad died.

I didn’t want people who didn’t know my Dad to have a wrong impression of the man he was. I didn’t want all the negative stereotypes and stigmas typically associated with suicide to discolor my Dad’s memory and legacy. If anything, I wanted people to know that even the strongest amongst our midst still suffer and still succumb. I wanted to convey this in a simple phrase—and like I do in so many areas of my life, I turned to a good book to help.

The gift of a good book is one of the most precious things you can give someone, in my opinion. I’m thankful that members of my family feel the same way. My grandmother, Pat, is an avid reader like me, and a thoughtful reader at that. Pat was my Dad’s step-mother, and in the aftermath of my Dad’s passing, Pat was extremely gracious and loving as my Mom and I continued to grieve. At the same time that she was suffering, she made sure to watch over my Mom and I, helping any way she could.

One of her most thoughtful gestures during that time came in the form of a book that has helped me in more ways than I’ll ever be able to thank her for. In an attempt to cope with her own sadness after losing my Dad, Pat came across an amazing book written by Albert Y. Hsu called Grieving a Suicide: A Loved One’s Search for Comfort, Answers & Hope. Pat was kind enough to read the book and recognize how helpful it was, and she bought two more copies: one for me, and one for my Mom. (For this book and others that helped me cope with my Dad’s death, visit the “Library” section of Seeya Bub.)

As soon as I received the book, I stopped reading what I currently had on the docket and made this my priority—and I’m so thankful that I did. This book was sent from Pat, but I know that it was also sent from God. I received the book from Grandma Pat right in the midst of my struggle to verbalize my Dad’s death. Like all good books, it came at just the right time.

In the understatement of the century, I’ll say this: Albert Hsu’s book is a real blessing and an inspiration—especially for everything I do on this blog. Hsu lost his father, Terry, to suicide. On an everyday Thursday morning, Albert received a call from his mother that is all too familiar for so many families in our country. Albert’s Mom had discovered Terry’s body, cold and lifeless, in their family home. In such a perfect way in the pages that follow, Albert describes each and every emotion that he felt and still feels and all the unique struggles he encounters as a survivor of suicide. His story is one of the most helpful things I encountered in the aftermath of my Dad’s death, for so many reasons.

And just as I was struggling with how to describe my Dad’s death, I came across a section in the book titled “How To Talk About Suicide”. It was like a message sent directly from God through another loyal follower. It was exactly, exactly what I needed in that exact moment.

Forgive the long passage, but understand how vitally important these words were for me in my struggle to grieve. Hsu wrote:

Survivors are hypersensitive to the topic of suicide. It punches us in the gut if someone jokes, “If this doesn’t work out, I’m going to kill myself!” One survivor told me that she challenges coworkers who say things like that, asking them if they’ve ever considered how painful those flip comments might be to others. Suicide is no laughing matter.

How should people describe the act of suicide? This has been an ongoing debate for some years. The traditional phrase has been to say that someone “committed suicide.” Survivors reacted against this, saying that it implies criminality, as one would commit murder. Is suicide a crime that is committed, like a burglary? In some cases, perhaps, but in many cases, no.

In the past few decades, psychologists and suicide survivor groups have moved toward saying that someone “completed suicide.” In this parlance, suicide is not a single act but the final episode in what may have been a period of self-destructive tendencies.

The problem is that in many cases, suicide is a single act, not one of a series of attempts or part of a larger pattern. Furthermore, to say that someone “completed” suicide sounds like noting a laudatory accomplishment, like completing a term paper or college degree. It also comes across as somewhat clinical and cold.

So more recently, grief organizations and counselors have suggested that we use more neutral terms: for example, someone “died of suicide” or “died by suicide.” The Compassionate Friends, an organization dedicated to helping families who have lost children, officially changed its language in 199 so that all its materials reflect this. Executive Director Diana Cunningham said, “Both expressions [‘committed suicide’ and ‘completed suicide’] perpetuate a stigma that is neither accurate nor relevant in today’s society.”

I resonate with this. I find it difficult to form the phrase “My dad committed suicide.” And it seems wholly unnatural to say that “my dad completed suicide.” It is somewhat easier to tell someone that “my dad died from suicide”… (Hsu, 2002, pp. 145-146)

I put the book down, and in that very moment I knew that I would never say the phrase “committed suicide” when describing my Dad or other people who suffered the same fate he did. I just couldn’t do it, because it didn’t accurately describe what happened to my Dad. “Committed” gave the impression that my Dad did what he did willingly and with a sound mind. That he welcomed death, even though I knew he fought against it each and every day of his life. Even though I have many questions about his death, I knew this was not the case.

I wanted to find language that reflected the fact that my Dad’s life was stolen. Stolen by a terrible disease that attacked his mind and his well-being. People don’t commit death by cancer. They don’t commit death via car accidents or strange and inexplicable illnesses. And they don’t commit suicide either. They suffer, and there’s no guilt to be felt by those who suffer from diseases that we don’t quite understand—whether physical or mental. I liked these phrases that Hsu suggested, but I still found myself searching for the perfect phrase.

And then, in the midst of all these thoughts, I heard someone say it for the first time. I don’t remember where, and I don’t even remember who said, but I heard someone refer to their loved one as a “victim of suicide.” Their loved one was a victim. A victim of a horrible illness that attacks and hijacks our thought processes to make life appear unlivable.

I knew, in that moment, that would be the phrase I used to describe my Dad’s death. I knew that that particular phrase captured the way I felt about my Dad’s death. It would send the most accurate message about my Dad’s death—that his life was cut short by a terrible disease and illness that stole his life prematurely. That I didn’t hold him responsible for that July morning in 2013. That I never, in any moment, blamed him for what happened.

So, whenever I would speak publicly about my Dad or talk to someone who asked why he died, my phrasing was always consistent and purposeful. My Dad, a strong, sturdy, and stable man was a victim. A victim of suicide. It didn’t remove the tears or the hurt, but using that phrase helped me honor my Dad each time I shared his story.

Sitting in Panera a few years after my Dad’s death, I found myself speaking passionately and purposefully to another young suicide survivor about this very topic. And I realized, in that moment, that God led me down that journey to describe my Dad’s death for a reason. I realized that words, no matter how innocuous or mundane, matter more than anything.

I admit, both selfishly and with regret, that before suicide impacted my life I never gave a second thought to how this language might bother or hurt those who were suffering. Before Dad’s death, I had a very different understanding of suicide. I would have willingly and readily used the phrase “commit suicide” without giving it a second thought.

But now, in this new life of mine, just hearing the word “suicide” causes me to stop dead in my tracks. I get goosebumps, still, every time I hear it. Because suicide has touched my life. And now, those words are personal.

To some people, this is nothing more than semantics and mental gymnastics. A meaningless attempt for someone who is hurting to cover their wounds with a bandage until the next wound surfaces. But to me, it’s everything. I believe words hold a unique power, because both the richest and poorest people in our world, separated by miles of inequality, still have stories and still have words to describe them. The psychologist Sigmund Freud said “Words have a magical power. They can bring either the greatest happiness or deepest despair; they can transfer knowledge from teacher to student; words enable the orator to sway his audience and dictate its decisions. Words are capable of arousing the strongest emotions and prompting all men’s actions.”

And I hope, with the words I choose, that I can sway someone else from meeting the same unfortunate end that my Dad found. I hope that the words I use, even those so seemingly simple as the way in which I describe his death, will cause someone to think differently about suicide, mental illness, and the need to fight against depression with everything we have.

This may sound simple, but the fight begins with the words we choose regarding suicide and mental illness. Our biggest obstacle in this battle, one that I hope you’ll join me in, is helping fight the shame and stigma of mental illness—and in order to get people to talk about how they feel, we have to make them feel that it’s okay to talk.

My words, your words, the words of hurting people—our words matter.

Dad, Each day I wrestle with telling your story and making sure people who never knew you know the type of man you were. I want them to know you were strong. I want them to know you were thoughtful. I want them to know you were caring and loving and everything a Father should be. I hope that the words I choose to use convey the love I have for you and the love you gave to all of us each and every day here on Earth. You never inflicted pain with the words you chose. You built people up by telling them and showing them how important they were to you. You and I had many wonderful conversations together, and we shared so many words. I’m sorry for the moments that my words may have hurt you. I wish I had spent more time telling you the words you deserved to hear—that I loved you, that I was proud of you, and that I was always there to listen when you were hurting. I know that we will have these conversations again. I wait longingly for that day. But until our words meet each other’s ears again, seeya Bub.

“May these words of my mouth and this meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” Psalm 19:14 (NIV)

Happy Birthday, Dad

On May 18, 2017 By seeyabubIn Holidays1 Comment

On Sunday May 21, 2017, my Dad would have celebrated his 54^th birthday.

It tears me up inside to have to say “would have”.

My Dad never made a big deal out of his birthday. He was always happy if Mom made one of his favorite home cooked meals and a tasty dessert. We would all get him a few gifts, and we would usually spend the night at home together. We would usually get one of his favorites—a Graeter’s black raspberry chip ice cream cake—and he would eat one big piece. And then another. And then usually another before bed. My Dad enjoyed the simple moments in his life, and a birthday didn’t need to have a bunch of extravagance to enjoy the day any more. A good meal, good family, and good cake and ice cream. I love that my Dad loved life’s simplicity. I strive to be more like him in this way.

Now that those moments are gone forever, I would give anything to go back to those days and make a ridiculously big deal out of his birthday. I would give anything to have another birthday to celebrate with him. I don’t know if it’s even what he would have wanted, because he really enjoyed life at a low-key pace and volume. Extravagant to Dad would have been two Graeter’s cakes instead of one. No matter what we did, I would have wished we had a huge blowout on his birthday. Looking back, that’s probably more about me than it is about him, and I’m ashamed to say that, but it’s all about the love I feel for him.

I’m sure this is a common sentiment to anyone who has lost a loved one, and it probably isn’t relegated to just birthdays. Christmas feels emptier. Thanksgiving feels emptier. Mother’s or Father’s days feel emptier. Yes, every day will feel a certain level of emptiness, but that emptiness is really magnified on those “big days”.

Losing a loved one to suicide (or losing a loved one prematurely) also brings on a new layer of feeling: the feeling of being robbed. The feeling of having one of life’s greatest treasures stolen prematurely.

My Dad deserved more birthdays. He deserved birthdays into his eighties and nineties and triple-digits. He deserved to celebrate his birthdays not just with me and Mom, but with his grandkids and maybe even great grandkids. He deserved more.

I experience a whole host of emotions on my Dad’s birthday, and it’s hard to predict what I might feel in any given moment throughout the day.

I feel sadness. Sadness that I can no longer say “Happy Birthday” to my Dad face to face. Or give him a gift or buy him a card. Sadness that I’ll never get to see the smile on his face or hear his familiar chuckle when he opens up a birthday card that I bought to poke fun at his age. Sadness that I’ll never be able to eat another birthday meal with him. Sadness that I’ll never be able to rub his bald head and make a joke about him having nothing else to lose since his hair was already gone years before. There’s so much sadness now on a day that was once all about being happy. It’s difficult to fathom.

I also feel distance. As each year passes by, I feel more and more distance from my Dad—and it scares me. Instead of celebrating his 52^nd or 53^rd or 54^th birthday, I find myself celebrating the second, or third, or fourth birthday since he’s gone. I find myself dividing my life into Before Dad and After Dad, and there’s a pain that invades my heart as I accumulate more birthdays and big days without him. I feel like the further away I get from the last conversation he and I shared, the more of him I’m losing. I feel like the more years that rack up since he’s been gone, the more I will forget. I don’t want my Dad to become a memory, but I’m worried that all I have left of him are memories which I’m bound to someday forget. The distance between then and now scares me tremendously.

I feel guilt. Tremendous guilt. Guilt for all of his birthdays that I took for granted. Guilt for all the birthdays of his that I likely treated as just another day. Guilt for all the birthdays where I scrambled at the last minute for a gift when I should have spent more time being thoughtful and considerate. Guilt for all the birthdays where I had something on my calendar other than spending time with the man who deserved it. I know, I know. It’s easy to be a Monday Morning Quarterback. It’s easy to have these feelings in retrospect, and I’d likely have them regardless of how I acted while he was here. I would always want more. But that doesn’t negate those feelings. That will never erase them. They are there, and they likely always will be.

I feel, oddly enough, like the victim of a robbery. Because my Dad died when he was only 50, I feel like something irreplaceable has been stolen from me. I never, ever, imagined that my Dad would be so overcome by his depression that it would threaten the existence of his life. I never thought that my family would join the unfortunate group of millions of Americans who are affected and impacted by suicide. My Dad’s life and my family’s life were not on course for this. This was not meant for us. But it happened anyway. And now, I’m left dealing with the repercussions of not having him here. I’m not trying to make this about me. It’s about my Dad’s life being stolen by a terrible disease—not mine. And that’s what I feel was stolen.

And yes, I feel anger. Immense anger. Not at my Dad—never at my Dad. I feel anger at the pressures that caused him to think life wasn’t worth living. I’m angry at depression, a disease that stole my Dad. I’m angry at all the things that shortened my Dad’s life unnecessarily. I’ve never felt anger at my Dad—something that not every survivor of suicide can say honestly. I’m not saying they shouldn’t be angry at the victim in their situation—I’m just sharing that I’ve never felt that way. Every situation is just so unique and so different. I’m fortunate that I can say this honestly, but I do have anger. Anger at the things that caused my Dad’s life to end and mine to change so dramatically. But I’ll never, ever be mad at my Dad.

I’ll admit—I haven’t yet found a good way to deal with losing my Dad on his birthday. I’ve tried different things every single year. I’ve tried writing him a letter. I’ve thought about visiting his grave site. I’ve thought about trying to do something he would have enjoyed, like eating a great meal or spending time outdoors in the park. Or eating an entire Graeter’s ice cream cake by myself—I think he would have advocated for this option. I’ve tried to ignore the magnitude of the date entirely (unsuccessfully I might add).

It’s a day on the calendar that will always be there for me, regardless of whether my Dad is here to celebrate or not. And honestly, I don’t know that these emotions that I feel today will ever subside. I will always miss my Dad, and that date will always be there. As a result, I think I’ll always experience all of these emotions—some years more, and other years less. I’ll always long to spend just one more birthday with him—knowing darn well that at the end of that birthday I would have still been asking for more. I’ll always dream of how he would have looked on his 60^th, 70^th, 80^th, and 90^th birthday. I’ll always long for the moments that were stolen from our family—the moments he should have had but never will.

But, I guess, there’s an alternative that I don’t wish for either. I could have lived a life without a father like the one I had. I could have been free from the pain of losing him, but that would have meant I would have had to been free of the love and joy that it was to spend 26 years with him here in this world. It’s so hard and so difficult to say goodbye to those we love, but it’s only hard and difficult if those people made a tremendous impact on our lives before they left. And I would choose the pain any day over if it means I can have the joy and love.

And boy, did my Dad do that. Not just on birthdays, but each and every day. He made me feel loved. He told me he was proud of me. He spent time with me when his busy workload and schedule offered him thousands of other alternatives. He did everything a Father should do, each and every day.

I wish I could give him more birthdays. I wish I could go back and redo the birthdays I did give him. I wish I had the perspective then that I do now so I could show my Dad how much he meant to me while he was here to experience it.

But, as I have to remind myself, he is experiencing it—just from a distance. Although I don’t always live this way, I know that my Dad is watching over me in heaven. I know that he knows my heart and that he doesn’t want me to experience any of these feelings I’m feeling on his birthday. I know that he’s watching over me, saying gently, “Bub, we will have plenty more birthdays to celebrate in Eternity—and they’ll be even better than anything we’ve ever had before.”

I don’t know what I’ll do this year. I don’t know how I’ll remember my Dad, and I don’t know what feelings I will feel.

But I can guarantee this. Even if it’s clouded in sadness, I will feel love. And appreciation. Love and appreciation for a Father who deserves it. Love and appreciation for a Father who gave everything he had, each and every day, to make people feel valued. Love and appreciation for a Dad whose absence brings a pain I never thought I could feel.

And love and appreciation for a man who had great taste in ice cream cakes.

Dad, It still doesn’t seem right that this is the fourth birthday that’s passed since you left us. It doesn’t feel right that life is going on without you. There are times when my heart feels so much pain that I can’t imagine ever celebrating anything without you again. But, in a weird way, I’m thankful for this pain because it reminds me how special you made life feel while you were here. You brought a vivid color and energy to my life each and every day that I don’t know I’ll ever be able to experience until I see you again. But I will see you again. I’ll make up for all those birthdays that I wished I could do over. You and I will, one day, celebrate our new birthdays in heaven. And fortunately, we will never, ever, see those birthdays come to an end. Happy birthday, Bub. You live on in my heart each and every day. Until I can tell you this face to face once again, seeya Bub.