Saturday, March 5, 2011

The day I became a writer

Over the last few months, I have received a lot of compliments about this.  The blog.  My writing. 

I've had people tell me that they can remember exactly how I am feeling right now, as they did when they lost a parent. 

I've had people who understood what it was like to watch what cancer does to the human body, but can never do to it's spirit.

I've had people tell me they are looking up at the sky a little more often now.

I've had many tell me that what I do here is probably therapeutic for me, an outlet for my feelings.  And they are right.  I have always been better at expressing myself this way than in person. Typing out what is going on in my head is a useful exercise.

And I am sure, like others have told me, someday I will be very grateful that I did all this.  That someday I will look back and be glad that I captured the time.  That I documented it. 

I took a lot of pictures of my Dad those last few weeks, of the things he loved.  Of the lab.  Of his life's work.  It's hard to look at them now, but I know that the day will come when I will be grateful for them. 

The last day I took him into work, only two days before he died, Dad asked me if I needed to use the computer.  It drove him crazy if I didn't have something to do, he didn't want me sitting there waiting for him to be done. 

He asked if I needed to write, if I'd written anything that day yet.  He said I needed to keep doing it, even if it was hard.  He told me I was too good to stop.

When I started the blog, he didn't read it.  Every so often, Mom would read something aloud to him, but he avoided it.  He thought it was strange for me to be so open.  He didn't want me writing about him, and for a long time I didn't. 

Then one day, I had a new follower...over there. --->

He is still there. 

One day he started reading.  He read everything I wrote from that day on.

Only a few days before he died, he was talking to someone.  I can't even remember who, it all seems to be such a blur.  But he was talking about me, and I was trying hard not to listen.  He didn't want me ever to be too far away in case he needed something, but I really tried to give him as much space as I could too.

He told whoever he was talking to that he was so glad I was there, he was grateful to my husband and in laws, that he needed me.  He told whoever it was that he was proud of me, of what I had become. 

He told them that I was a writer.

He always was my biggest cheerleader.  Today, with all the confidence in the world I can say this:

I am a writer.

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