Five years. That’s how old my grandson was when my dad passed from Covid. January 4, 2021. Five years since my mom’s whole world collapsed around her, since my world … shifted like fault lines before an earthquake. Five years sound like such a short amount of time. It is, but then again, it’s not. For me it feels like yesterday, while simultaneously feeling like a lifetime ago.

In reality, it really was a lifetime ago. My dad’s lifetime. Five years of trying to navigate through life without him. A life without my dad, the one man who had been there through every day I had existed. The one who sat in the hospital waiting room the day I was born, being told there was only a fifty percent chance my mom and I would survive. The one who two months later drove me home, prayers answered. The softball coach, the one who taught me how to play basketball, helped deliver Sunday newspapers, taught me how to drive, who walked me to where my future husband was waiting. The one waiting at the hospital when my daughters were born. The man I compared every man I ever met to, because he was what they were supposed to be like, not some fictional idea from the movies. Real, flawed, honest, faithful, truthful and loyal to a point. Still to this day my mind will tell me – ask Dad – Dad would know – what would Dad think? and then reality hits like a ton of bricks. My lifetime anchor, my rock, is not here. Those days aren’t as frequent as they once were, but they still happen. Yes, I know, we all have to prepare for that, but I think it’s harder to accept when there’s no goodbye … no actual ability to see him there at the funeral home. My brain knows he’s gone but the heart refuses to believe it.

There are days that are just going along like normal and then out of nowhere, a smell, a place, or a memory stops everything. It could be just about anything but then there’s dad. Last fall I had one of those days. It was raining, the rain we’d needed for a while. A routine morning, heading over to sit with the grandkids. I had grabbed a baseball cap on my way out the door to shield my glasses, tossing it into the passenger seat. After arriving at my destination, just as I was going to open the door to get out, it started pouring down rain. I grab my bag and the baseball cap preparing for a quick escape, except as I glance down at the cap to put it on … I stop. There it was. On the inside of the brim, A. Trobe. I sat there, staring at that hat, completely caught off guard. I had forgotten about it. We had given it to Dad when he was in the healthcare facility. They had written his name in it. There was no warning, no word, no thought process to get here. Just that hat with the pretty blue design and Sanibel Island written on it, dropped squarely in my lap. In a flash dad was here, out of nowhere, with me again, unexpected, and overwhelming. These types of experiences show up from time to time. Sometimes they are just a whisper, like a soft wind. Other times it’s like the boom of thunder shaking the house.

The guilt is the most difficult side of dad not being here. I run through everything leading up to his passing. The years before, the things I should or could have done differently. The questions about whether I made the right decisions. There are no right answers. Just doubt.

Then there’s the unanswered questions I should have asked him when he was still able to answer them. The ones that never got asked because life gets too busy, the ones I didn’t think to ask when I was younger, or the ones that seemed too fragile to ask. The questions that needed to be asked, simply because as children we never truly know who our parents are. We only know what we perceive them to be. Rarely do we ever dive deeply into what they believe or feel or think. The reason they do all those things they do. We don’t know what truly makes them … them, or what they never share or keep hidden so far down. The traumas, the turning points, the days that make them decide when and what is enough to be done with someone. All the ones left unanswered, the stories left untold. Secrets never revealed, the heartache, joy, anger, guilt, forgiveness left unspoken. How I wish I could have asked my dad so many questions I never thought to.

“Why did you run away to Florida to play basketball?”, “When did you know mom was the one?”, “How did you find, you?”, “How did you find the strength to hold on when you almost lost both of us?”, “What was your biggest regret?”, Why did you name me Dawn?”, “What were your dreams growing up?”, “Is there anything you would do over?” All the questions that made up dad. All the things he kept to himself.
What I do know is, dad loved us all. He continued to become who he was, always growing, He cared about a lot of things. and he expected us to be ourselves, truthful, no pretense. Always genuinely us. I know our lives are richer for having him in it. We miss and will continue to miss him for as long as our memory holds. His love for his family, will live on as each generation passes it along. He will always be my Dad and I will love him forever and a day.

January 1, 2026: another start to a new year, another year that I continue to bring forward the memories of all those New Year’s Eves we shared. Our plans for the new year that we were going to do together are no longer. Covid, you cruel thief.

We two who’ve paddled in the stream
From morning sun ’til night
The seas between us roared and swelled
Since the days of auld lang syne.

For old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind
Should old acquaintance be forgot
For the sake of auld lang syne?
(from Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns)

We were a group of eight. For years, we gathered for dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant several Saturdays a month. Regularly, the birthdays were celebrated with joyful acknowledgement. And, every New Year’s Eve, we bid goodbye to the old year and anticipated with hope the year to come.

Since 2018, five of us have passed — from the deterioration of old age; from cancer; and from COVID-19 which stole my partner, Jody. We three survivors carry on, still gathering to celebrate our own birthdays and those of the ones who are no longer with us; in short, to remember. Importantly, we continue our New Year’s Eve dinners.

This New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2025, will be the sixth time that Jody will be missing from our dinner. I find myself more introspective than I have been in previous years. I am worried that my memories of Jody are fading with time. The sound of his voice, his hearty laugh, the gentle breathing as he slept don’t always come swiftly to mind. I miss the feel of my fingers running over his skin. The simple way he interacted with others –- friends and strangers, human, canine, and feline alike –- always with care and respect. Most of all, I miss him keeping me on an even keel when my patience runs low.

During our New Year’s Eve dinners, we always share what we hope to accomplish in the coming year. Every year it sounds the same: lose some weight, throw out old junk, read more and watch less television. This year one thought stands strong in my heart and mind.

The world seems hell-bent on forgetting the millions who were lost during the COVID-19 pandemic. I find it difficult to believe that they don’t care, but, sadly, that’s probably true for many. Others, perhaps, feel guilty that they survived unscathed and still don’t know how to express any feeling of consolation to those who lost loved ones. For all of us that lost someone, we cannot, we MUST NOT let them be forgotten. I will work harder to tell Jody’s story, what gave him joy, what he struggled with, all the things that made him Jody. In other words, I will keep him alive in my mind and in my heart. Won’t you do the same for your loved ones?

Five years without James, some things are still the same but also completely different at the same time. I miss having a partner in this crazy world. My biggest hurt these days is not for myself but for the kids. So much is happening in their lives that he should be here for. I miss you so much JD. Seventeen years ago we spent New Years on the news with our newborn Julia. Now, New Years Day is tainted forever. I have not said “Happy New Years” to anyone since 1/1/21. For us, that is never going to be a Happy Day ever again. Always …

I have such great memories of my daughter & son-in-laws wedding. They were only married a little over 2 years. Adam died of Covid and I can’t help wondering how much different life would be right now, if he was still with us.