I finally responded to your Facebook post.

I check my Facebook memories every day. It’s a little ritual where I drink my coffee and get to revisit how I felt back then and compare it to where I am now. 

It's pretty fascinating how the same memory can hit you differently each year. For some memories, it’s like looking at a completely new story. I like to think it means we’re all evolving in our own ways.

I remember when my dad posted something on my wall that made me really angry. I felt guilt for not visiting him more often, but I was going through a rough patch myself at the time.

I didn't understand that he would be dead in a few months or I was ignoring that fact as a survival tactic at the time.

But here it is:

I just "liked" it and raged internally. Mostly, because I thought it was embarrasing to be called out in front of your friends. Like only a parent can do.

But now, I wish I had handled it differently.

Instead, I had written a blog post and went out to get wings, thought I was falling in love AGAIN and drank too much. Real sterotypical writer stuff.

Because I drug my feet, by the time I spent time with him, I definitely had to acknowledge that he was dying. And communication wasn't easy sitting in the hospital room.

If I had the chance today, it would go like this:

Dear Daddy,

I went for a walk this morning. Every August, I promise myself that I won’t stay in Missouri much longer. I hate the heat, and I just got a $385 utility bill. It's all this real adult stuff that comes with transitions, and I don't feel prepared for it all. And it all seems to hit at once.

I think you wrote on my wall because you read my blog post and it made you sad. Parents want their kids' lives to be perfect, which isn’t realistic. I find myself doing the same with Sydney.

I want you to recognize me when we meet again. I was baptized several years ago, so I believe we will. I know... you had me baptized when I was a baby, and we were Catholic. We can hash that out while playing euchre in Heaven. We’ll have time.

Life isn’t bad. I listened to Abbey Road on my walk. I'm frustrated that I can't exercise the way I need to for my mind right now because of my surgery, but I’m feeling better every week.

Abbey Road is one of those albums you need to listen to from beginning to end. That’s the art of it, and it’s lost on so many people nowadays. We may listen, but we’re also on our phones. There’s this “thing” where nothing gets our full attention anymore. I hate it and do it simultaneously. It leaves you feeling like you’re missing something, constantly.

Dad, no one spends time together without some sort of buffer. No one spends time with their kids without posting about it. No good deed goes without self-reward. You’d hate it.

And no one just goes for a walk and listens to art as intended. We live in a shuffle-mode world.

I say “no one,” but that isn’t entirely accurate. But it is quite common.

We aren’t even allowed to think about our problems and dissect them in our minds in hopes of correcting them. That’s called “overthinking.” And since acknowledging our issues can be uncomfortable for those around us, it’s often discouraged.

So, we stay right where we are or close to it. And you know me better than others, so you know that I feel like I am not transitioning into where I should be at the pace that allows me to take a full breath.

I liked the neighborhood I walked through today. You can tell that people enjoy their homes. There’s this one house—definitely not anything that would make your head turn on a car ride—but they have planted perennials that I’m sure come back thicker and more vibrant every year. And they have these awful, cheap garage doors, old and rotted in the corners. But they put faux stained glass film on the garage door windows. Every time I walk by, I imagine the day they probably did it and how they likely stood at the end of their driveway, looking at it after completion, feeling satisfied and happy. I’ve done things like that with my house, but I don’t feel connected to it the way I should. I don’t know what to do to change that either. Sometimes, I’m happy to pull into the driveway, and sometimes I’m not. I can’t afford to fix the things that drive me crazy, and Dad, it is the hottest and coldest house. But it’s mine. I think you’d be proud of me.

That part in Abbey Road where they sing:

"She came in through the bathroom window
Protected by a silver spoon
But now she sucks her thumb and wanders
By the banks of her own lagoon
Didn’t anybody tell her?
Didn’t anybody see?
Sunday’s on the phone to Monday
Tuesday’s on the phone to me"

...feels too relevant these days. But when they talk about how even though everything has fallen apart, it’s a chance to start again, and that it’s magical to not know what’s going on sometimes:

"But oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Oh, that magic feeling, nowhere to go
Nowhere to go
One sweet dream
Pick up the bags, get in the limousine
Soon we’ll be away from here
Step on the gas and wipe that tear away
One sweet dream came true today"

...that gives me hope. But if you don’t listen to it all, you miss the full story with all the emotions. So, I’ve always listened to it alone. I don't need some jerk to tell me what John and Paul really meant.  At least, the suite at the end I savor to myself. That’s my favorite.

I don’t write anymore. I know only one way to write, and I’ve had too many people use what is cathartic for me as something to throw back in my face. Which I hate because they are all secondary in this blog. It’s about my feelings. But I always end up feeling like I need to apologize for those, so it became easier not to write. I can’t explain why I don’t read books now. But I don’t feel as intelligent or mentally stimulated as I used to, and that feels pretty bad. Phones have ruined so many things, but we need them.

You were really a great writer. I never told you that I felt you were amazing, which is unfortunate because you were, very literally, one of the best.

I had a job interview yesterday and was told that I was the only person they had ever seen personally who scored a hundred percent on the Positivity portion. It must still be ingrained in me. That is hopeful. And ironic, currently. I love coaching, but I fear I am burned out regarding everything else that comes with it. The 60 minutes fill my soul, but the other parts drain it. I coached earlier this week and thought, “I would put this in front of anyone in my field. I love to teach.” Do it right, and you create an atmosphere that is irresistible and educational. I think you’d be proud of that too. But after 17 years, I don’t feel like my skills and experience match the job I’m in, and also, I can’t afford to continue it. Four years ago, yes. Today, I sell plasma to fill in gaps, and that isn’t how I want to live anymore. It makes me feel like I’ve failed somehow. I get nervous using air conditioning in my car unless I really need to. And did I mention that I hate Augusts in Missouri? 

We could have some interesting talks about politics. Also, people are horrid about politics now. And hateful. I’ve lost so much respect for so many people, but you learn to try and ignore it. You’d hate that part too. So many can’t let others just believe what they want to believe. Adults call each other names. They post nasty things about other groups of HUMANS on Facebook. Oh, Facebook has changed too. But we stay because we would miss our friends. Yet we sit and look at friends when we’re in the presence of other friends or family. Dad, we are present yet not present. It all leaves you knowing that there’s more in life but not living it because you can’t really live a full life alone. We are all functioning at 85%, at best.

Remember how the ocean blew cool air when we were on the Cape? Or in California? And aside from God, you were in the presence of something so vast that your life and its problems felt manageable in comparison? Nothing in Missouri feels as big as what is before me. And while I know there is a reason for this time and I trust God, this isn’t my home. Where that is, I don’t know, but it isn’t here. The people I love are here, though.

But Dad, I need to look at the ocean. Or things need to seem smaller where I land.

I want you to recognize me after my transition is complete too, but Dad, I am so tired from the last seven years. When do all the pieces come together? When do I get to stop feeling like everything in my life is incomplete? When is my transition done?

Looking forward to your wisdom and our euchre game someday.

I love you,

Nicole