There is a thread that seems to run through the lives of many of us that lost a parent at a young age. We obsess about the age at which they die, and wonder if that will be when our time is up. With this in mind, a few weeks ago I hit a milestone. On June 27 I was the exact age my father was when he died. In the 26 years since he died, I've spent a lot of time focusing on his death from the perspective of losing a parent as a 10 year old girl.How that affected and shaped the rest of my life. At some point, around the time I hit 30 I found myself focusing more and more on his point of view. When your father dies at age 36 you spend a lot of years hearing people say "wow, he was so young" but it wasn't until recently that I really started to reflect on what that would mean to have your life end at 36. I thought less about what my mother, my children and I lost not having him here and focused on all the things he didn't have time to experience. He missed watching his children grow up, to guide and protect them. He missed out on graduations, weddings, and grandchildren. He missed out on all the things that an OG Star Trek geek would have loved about the world today: the internet, cell phones, computers that fit in your hand, ipods, HGTVs, the ability to download music or games at a moments notice. He missed seeing all of the wonders that the Hubble have brought to us, images of the surface of Mars, the downgrading of poor Pluto! He was never able to make his way to Washington D.C. to see the Vietnam Memorial or watch the end of the Cold War. He missed Star Trek: The Next Generation and the Star Wars prequels. He missed middle and old age and all the blessings and curses that come with that, all those things that most people take for granted will be there.
I spent a lot of time on June 27 thinking about where I started, where I'm at now and where I want to go. It felt important to take some time to honor the person that I was and acknowledge the ways I've grown and adapted to life. With the passing of the date that would have been my father's final moments, I found acceptance and gratitude for the worlds "middle aged" in a way that even a few months ago I would have scoffed at.
The beginnings are the set up. Learning the players, the back-story, finding the plot. The endings bring resolutions. It's the second act that makes or breaks a story. That place where you find the rhythm and reason. These last few weeks have felt like the beginning of the second act and I suddenly find myself feeling prepared for whatever may come. Not a typical feeling for a socially awkward girl from the wrong side of the street but one I'll gladly take either way. I'm ready to focus on the heart.
