I Wish I’d Hugged You Longer, Dad
The last time I saw my Dad alive, I struggled with a massive internal battle of emotions as I attempted to navigate through the fear and grief I was feeling without showing it to him. Since he had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis and told he had 6 months to live, my mantra had been to “keep planning on the future with him.” I really believed that mindset was everything, and that if we could all get my Dad to believe that he wasn’t going to die in 6 months, somehow…he wouldn’t.
It sounds crazy now; but we’ve all read the stories of medical miracles, spontaneous unexplained remission, alternative health cures through detoxifying the diet, Deepak Chopra books, etc. I now understand it was a part of the denial phase of my grief. But at the time, I was surviving mentally each day by telling myself the best thing for him was for everyone to keep treating him the same. I thought that if I showed him I believed he had more than 6 months to live, he would believe it, too.
That last goodbye haunts me, because I deeply regret that I chose to continue my path of pretending nothing was wrong until the very end. There was a moment there, where I had a choice between giving him a “normal” goodbye, or making it clear that I thought it could be our “last” goodbye. Every fiber of my being wanted to sob and run into his arms for comfort, like when I was a little girl. Every piece of me wanted to cry into his shoulder and hug him until I was physically peeled off him and forced to leave.
But after all these years of therapy, learning to regulate and control my impulses and emotions, I fought through that feeling by telling myself that my emotions were not what was important, his were. I told myself that the worst thing I could do was break down, to make him feel sad, to make this goodbye harder than it already was. I told myself that I needed to make him feel like this wasn’t our last goodbye, and that the way to do that would be not to treat it any differently.
So, instead of making a “big scene”—something he always criticized my Mom for doing—I held everything in and put up my most stoic front. I wanted my Dad to know I wasn’t weak anymore, that I could be strong in these moments. I gave him a painfully “normal” length hug, kissed him on the cheek, and told him I’d be back for Thanksgiving in less than a month. I wanted him to believe it, but something about the way his head nodded at me as I walked towards the door told me he didn’t.
It killed me, and I wanted to rush back to him. But I stopped myself. “The only way is forward, Lauren. Show him you believe that you’re going to see him again, don’t break down, don’t fall apart now, you’ve come this far.” With my chest pounding and sweat dripping down the back of my neck, I made it out the door and into the car. My cousin Mary was driving me to the airport. I don’t remember the drive at all, or what we talked about. I think she could tell I was in a bit of a daze, stuck in my head, just trying to nod and smile.
When he passed on October 30, the first wave of grief that hit me was the realization that it had been our last goodbye, and I had let it slip right through my fingers. How many people have said about the death of a loved one, that they just wished they’d had a chance to say goodbye. To tell them how much they loved them one last time. The weight of realizing I had that moment right in front of me, and chose to use it for a “normal” goodbye instead, was crushing.
I let myself fall into a deep depressive episode, replaying that last goodbye over and over again. I made myself physically sick thinking about how profoundly I had let him down, not even giving him the final, heartfelt goodbye he deserved. I had written a letter to him, saying everything, but I didn’t want to give it to him until it was “really” the end. But, that was really the end.
For a long time, I didn’t have any dreams with my Dad. I don’t dream a lot, mostly because I use cannabis to treat my PTSD symptoms, something I’ve done since 2005. One of the reasons that cannabis is so helpful for people with PTSD, is that it suppresses dreaming. People say you still dream but just don’t remember it. Either way, it’s great at treating nightmares—but you lose the good dreams, too.
Now, my Dad is regularly in my dreams. Sometimes they are good dreams, sometimes they are…not good. There are different versions of him in the dreams. One version of him is quite chilling, in that there is the sense you know he is dead. Another version of him is in the final months of his life. But my favorite version of him is very warm and comforting, the one closest to the real him.
In the very first dream I remember having about my Dad, he was just like the real him. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, just as when I’d left that last time. Except he didn’t look sick or sad. This time, I ran back and hugged him. He held me like when I was his little girl, and I hugged him forever, never letting go, until the end of time.
I like to think that when that version of him shows up in my dreams, it is his essence within me. The other versions are just constructs my mind created from the grief and trauma of losing him. That hug felt so real. I woke from that dream with the sense that my Dad wanted me to stop torturing myself over that choice I made, and that he wanted to help me by giving me the best hug he could from whatever realm his spirit exists in.
While I have forgiven myself (for the most part), I do still think about that moment. I give myself as much grace as I can, and remind myself that my Dad would never want me to be so hard on myself. I tell myself that my Dad forgives me, and that my Dad understands.
Yet still, I wish I’d hugged him longer.
I Wish I’d Hugged You Longer, Dad
I’m so sorry I didn’t hug you longer, Dad
That day that would be our last.
I thought that I’d be stronger,
But I kept clinging to the past.
The whole time I waited for my airport ride,
We sat tensely on the couch.
I wanted to say something to make you smile,
To make you think of something else.
Something to release the tension,
To make us forget about death.
Usually lightening the mood was easy for us;
Not this time.
The thought formed like a dark cloud in my mind:
“What if this is the last time?”
My heart skipped a beat, my stomach turned—
“No!” I told myself—
“Don’t treat him like this is a forever goodbye!”
I had been telling myself for months now:
Don’t you dare start treating him like he’s about to die!
It was so irrational, but part of me truly believed
Your birthdays would keep coming,
You’d somehow beat the odds,
God would grant us a miracle,
If we could just make you believe,
By treating you no differently.
When Mary’s car pulled into the driveway,
When it was time to leave and say goodbye,
I was sobbing like a child, on the inside.
On the outside, I was stoic.
I told myself: “Don’t make a scene!”
Don’t make him feel anxious,
Don’t make him feel sad,
Just hug him like normal,
And say, “Bye, Dad.”
I told you I’d be back for Thanksgiving,
Because I wanted you to know,
We’d see each other again soon.
But there was something about
The way you dropped your head
As I was leaving the room.
I almost lost it there, I almost burst out in tears.
I almost cried and ran to your arms!
God, how I wish that I had.
I wish that I had let the moment in,
I wish I hadn’t tried to be so strong.
I should have ran to you and hugged you,
So tightly, and for so long.
I think about you every day,
And see you in my dreams.
I know how much you loved me,
How much you wanted me to succeed.
So I try not to torture myself
Thinking about that day.
I try not to replay it,
The moment I walked away…
My body was screaming at me:
Stay! Stay! Stay!
But I told myself to be calm,
And not to make a scene.
When you deserved the longest hug
The world has ever seen.
I know that on the other side,
You’re free of human emotions.
I know you’d want me to forgive myself.
I know you’d want me to be happy,
To focus on my marriage and my health.
Still, more than anything else:
I wish I’d hugged you longer, Dad.
❤ ❤ ❤