For 8 weeks I've been trying to accept being pregnant. Then Friday I learn there's no baby, just a blighted ovum. The nausea, the cravings, the care I took in eating 71 grams of protein, the prenatal vitamins, all a waste.
So I had gone back to accepting that I was done having children. I'm happy with two. I was trying to make room for three. Now I have an empty space.
Avi comes in this morning and starts saying such sweet things about me. I'm thinking he's consoling me since I am in the process of miscarriage.
No he's about to tell me my father is dead. At 55.
My daddy, my favorite guy, my hero. Gone. I can't call him when I hear weird car noises. I can't call him when I need a sane voice. I can't call him when I need to hear his wisdom. I can't smell of his cologne (or was it aftershave) after he hugs me so tight it hurts because it's been too long.
I can't sit in his lap and hold my breath so I don't crush him with my huge 5 year old body.
I can't hear him talk to perfect strangers as if they were his best friends.
I got to eat lunch with him one day when I was at work. It was my last time with him. I will cherish that forever. I expected to meet him at the Asian place across from where I work. Instead he's leaning on the building outside my door. I want to run to him, but I don't. I just slowly walk to him and act as if it's the most normal, common thing to do. People look at me when he hugs me and kisses me and puts his arm around my shoulder. I just grin like an idiot.
He taught me how to wait with patience. He taught me how to hold my tongue. He taught me how to work hard. How to be loyal and cherish family. I doubt all the words he said to me would fill much of a book, but each word was carefully chosen and thought out.
I hope I can be like him when I grow up. Good bye Daddy.