THE CURVE

Because Facebook has become our own personal billboard, I let my friends and extended (mom's side - I would never let his own family find out via Facebook - had that done to me, no good) family know that my dad had passed with this simple post:

Daddy's words of wisdom:

"God didn't promise to cure my cancer, He promised to save me."

"Dammit, Leslie, you've got to watch the ball all the way into the glove!"

James Leon Vancil

10/26/32 – 8/25-14

One of my friends that I have known since my softball days commented that she could remember dad screaming that last one at me from the stands.  I am sure she (and anyone in a three block radius of the ball fields) CAN remember that.

Dad, I think, though he never said so outright, wanted boys.  He got girls.  Not to be slowed down, he raised his daughters to be strong, independent and self sufficient.  We all had to learn to change a tire and change our own oil before we could get our driver's licenses.  He let us suffer and figure it out.  We were not princesses, we were warriors.

Both of my parents coached softball at one point, and even at four or so, I was on the ball fields in a team jersey. 

When it was my turn to play, I was a pitcher, and up went the Ball jar lid nailed to the wooden fence, and the pitching distance was marked.  I had to hit that stupid jar lid a certain number of times every day.  My lack of super softball stardom was not going to be the result of lack of effort!

Dad and I also played catch waaaay more than I wanted to play catch.  If you know me, you know that what I am thinking of feeling is never a secret.  When I got tired of being in the front yard throwing a ball back and forth and got lazy, my father would intentionally throw a curveball at his baby girls' head or chest. 

And connect.

"Dammit, Leslie, you've got to watch the ball all the way into the glove!"

To a twelve year old girl, this is devastating.  To a forty something year old woman, this is wisdom. 

I am single.  I put myself through college.  I bought my own house without a dollar from either parent.  I am rarely frightened by life.  I change my own light fixtures, caulk my own tub, and am generally unflappable in stressful situations, and for this I thank my father.

I thanked him in spring, 2013 for hitting this little girl with curve balls.

He was, at that point, an 80 year old man recovering from a stroke, and he got teary eyed with a look of apology in his eyes.  

I quickly made sure he understood that I was serious - I really was THANKING him for not raising a princess waiting on or even remotely expecting a knight in shining armor. 

I look around at some of the delicate flowers that are my peers - those that weren't or haven't yet been tested by fire, those that lean on daddies and husbands, and though there is a thin layer of jealousy at what seems on the outside to be a soft existence, I am, at heart, thankful that my daddy got his girls dirty, and covered in oil, and bruised from curveballs - and prepared to face life's challenges on their own if they needed to.

I am my daddy's girl, and I will make him proud. 

I just wish the curveballs would stop for a minute.

THE CLUB

Two months ago tomorrow, with my head on my sister's shoulder and her head resting on mine, I held my father's hand while he drew his last labored breath.

I had been afraid that I would not get to him in time for this moment.  I was equally afraid that I would be there.  I am sorry I was there. I am glad I was there.

I have no parents.

I am struggling with this sentence.

I had lunch soon after that day with a woman who lost both of her parents within a couple of months of each other.  One from cancer, the other, suddenly from an aortic tear.  She is a very stoic and professional woman, but she looked me in the eyes and told me that I was now a member of a club - one that non-members can't appreciate.  I think she was right.

I haven't depended on my parents for more than 20 years - not for financial support, not really for emotional support (I'll write more about that later.  Maybe.) yet there is something absolutely terrifying in the feeling of utter aloneness and the lack of a perceived safety net that I didn't realize was there until it was completely, utterly and irrevocably gone.

My mother has been gone for more than nine years now, and I am at peace with her passing.  Truthfully, I am at some sort of peace with dad's passing, though I can't accurately describe the intense and sometimes frightening emotions (particularly white-hot anger) that I have relating to some of the events and people tangential to and following his death. 

What I am NOT at peace with is that, as a forty four year old homeowner, I feel like a child with no home to go home to.

I pride myself on being strong, creative, resilient and independent, but right now these two pictures sum up how I feel (and how strong, creative resilient and independent I feel right now).

My father has let me go to face the world on my own.

 

 

But I want my daddy.

 



The thing is, though, the members of this club don't get that luxury, and they can't call their mom to talk about it.  We smile and try not to take our crazy out on people who innocently enough talk about the daddy/daughter events they have planned.

I hope he heard me when I told him I loved him.  Every time.