I just marked the one year anniversary of my dad's death (December 14th) and a week or so before my therapist prompted "What will you be doing to remember your father this year? Will you do anything to mark the occasion?"

It hadn't even crossed my mind. I simply figured it would be a day when I felt vaguely bad and untethered, floating through the hours waiting for the day to pass.

I responded half-jokingly, "Well my dad didn't like the holidays. He didn't like celebrations. And he hated being the center of attention in any normal ways .I think the only thing I could do is to recreate his perfect type of day. So I could 1. Find some unnecessary manual labor to engage in, 2. Follow said labor with a stiff (or cheap) drink, 3. Think about my dad as I do these activities".

It laughed it off as it sounded absurd.

When the Universe Cooperates

But as the day rolled around the universe had other plans. Five inches of snow fell overnight, and we no longer have a pick-up truck with a plow.

I spent 2 hours shoveling snow (#1 check)

When I came inside, sweating, red faced and sore in all the weirdest places, I cracked open a Miller High Life (#2 check)

And as I sat down peeling off my sweaty layers and drinking my beer, I thought of my dad. I could see him so clearly- heading out into the snow for hours and hours in a one-piece green adult snowsuit, pipe smoke curling up into the winter air, running his snowplow on his Kubota tractor. First our driveway, then over to the farm, then to any neighbor who needed a helping hand. (#3 check).

It was perfect. Accidentally, beautifully perfect.

The Abyss We All Face

A couple of days later. I was texting a dear friend who is a world away in Australia. Her mom is at that point of dying where she has stopped eating and is mostly sleeping. Her mom's birthday is tomorrow. She will be 92.

Here's the thing that is so wild: even when death at that age is a logically sound outcome, even when someone has lived an incredibly full life, it's still impossibly hard as a child. There is something so completely unmooring about losing a parent. It feels like stepping out into an abyss– a completely visceral experience that defies logic.

My friend didn't need platitudes. She didn't need anything from me but to have me hear her pain and listen to her distress in this moment.

All I could think to tell her is that it is going to feel and be awful, but also it's (eventually) going to be completely OK.

The Abyss We All Face

Death is just a part of life, but one that we are so ill prepared for and uncomfortable discussing. We need to normalize death. We need to talk about it, we need to share our experiences of it and the moments and weeks and months and years of geriatric care that lead to it.

If we understand the final leg of our journey — if we can talk and laugh and hear each other's stories- it makes such a big difference. Not in preventing the pain, but in knowing we are not alone in it.

Sometimes honoring someone eans doing exactly what they would have done: something useful, something ordinary, something that requires no fanfare. My dad would have hated a celebration or memorial service to mark this day, but he would have appreciated lending a helping hand to a friend.

That's what I will remember. That's what I will carry forward. And maybe next December 14th, I'll hope for snow again.