I miss you dad

April 2, 2006 will mark the four year anniversary of my dad's death. At age 64 he died from brain cancer. Not one, not two, not three, but four tumors in his brain. For years they didn't make a sound. By the time he was diagnosed he was already in end stage. And died two months later.
When I think about my dad, I think about running. Running was his life. He ran and ran and ran - 5k's, 10k's, marathons, triathlons, Thanksgiving Day turkey trots. He ran in Chicago, Las Vagas, LA, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Michigan. He planned business trips and vacations around races. He ran until he had to use the walls to steady himself as he walked down the hallway to his bedroom. Then came a wheelchair and then, completely paralyzed, he lay in his bed or the hospital's bed or the hospice's bed and then, his coffin bed.
Four years and yet, it's still not real that he's gone or perhaps more so, the way that he left. It doesn't make any sense, as if one could talk sense into cancer.
When I think about my dad, I don't see him sick. I see him running or biking or during our summer vacations in Charlevoix, Michigan, watching the boats in the harbor, sipping coffee from 7-11. Or I see him in the evenings, at home in Maryland, after a long day at work, sitting in the living room, eating sardines and a glass of wine in front of the TV, watching Dan Rather on the evening news, or The Dick Van Dyke Show, or the Mary Tyler Moore Show, the Bob Newhart Show or the Andy Griffith Show. His favorites. Now, in my own TV room, in my own home, I watch the reruns and think about my dad.
When I think about my relationship with my dad, I think about running. I grew up running with my dad. And as all father-daughter relationships go, it wasn't without it's rollercoaster of emotions. I didn't always enjoy it. I didn't always want to spend time away from my friends to run with my dad; I didn't always want to get up early Saturday mornings to run races. And at the time, I didn't know it but looking back now I can see that I didn't have to. I thought I had to. But really, I wanted to. It was what we did, together. It was time with dad. So, I ran through middle school, through four years of high school cross country, through my college years, my first heartbreak, my eating disorder and too many sad relationships with boys. Then I moved to Seattle for grad school and me and my running shoes explored the city. And though my dad was on the east coast and I was on the west coast, it was still our thing, our connection.
Then my dad died. And I haven't run since. Sure, I've jogged a little here & there. I've tried to start up again here and there. But I haven't been able to stick to it. So now, many pounds heavier and totally out of shape, I guess you could call this grief. Or I should say, unexpressed grief. Grief I'm holding onto as a last attempt to hold onto my dad. So with this blog, I begin. I lace up my shoes, wear my dad's racing watch, and begin again, in hopes that this time, I stick with it. After all, it's still our connection. It always will be.