The Gift of a Full Life

I remember well Thanksgiving when I was a child. My best memories are of my father going hunting with his brothers and my mom preparing the dinner, especially the turkey. My grandparents and sometimes my aunt and uncle and cousins would come to our house for dinner. I remember the smell of my father as he would come in from the outdoors. The cool air which clung to him would smell fresh after the closeness of the house, and the coldness of his clothes would reach out to brace and hug us close. He was a huntsman and sometimes he brought down a deer, sometimes he didn't, but he exuded such energy from the openness of the outdoors.

My father had a second stroke at the age of forty-two, which put him in a wheelchair for the next ten years. And the year he died, it was in November, his favorite time of year. I was living in Washington, D.C., at the time and as I had just been home for his funeral, I did not go home for Thanksgiving. The holidays were difficult. My sister had her first child two weeks after my father's death. That was a wonderfully good thing, but also sad because my father was not here to share in the joy.

Each day was a painful and difficult step and the depression hung stagnant in the air around me. I could not shake it, if followed me everywhere.

But Christmas came quickly and I had three young children, lifelines that kept me from falling into the bottomless void of depression. It was hard to think about the new shoes I had planned to give my father that year. Or walking into a store and seeing things I knew he would like. But onwards I went until Christmas came, and we traveled back to New York. It was fuzzy that year. I can't remember much about it. We went to my sister's home as her first child was virtually newborn. It was quiet, and of course, we all felt the absence of my father.

I remember my husband taking our children to visit his grandmother that year. She had Alzheimer's, but was still living at her farmhouse. He was sad when he came back. It was the last time he took the children to see her.

We packed the car to head home that evening. It was snowing, pretty heavily and we wanted to get a good start. The snow cocooned us as we left my sister's driveway and it felt like we were the only ones left in the world. I looked forward to getting home.

We made it through the worst of the holidays with my father gone. I thought the rest would be a little easier. The following year, my sister hosted a huge family party. We felt not just us, but our children as well needed this family connection.

My sister and I sat up the night before the party until three a.m. making reindeer candy canes. As we looked at them hanging off the curtain rods all around the room with their bright red noses and wiggly eyes we couldn't help laughing. We laughed so hard we cried. In a way they reminded us of our father, of his brothers going off together as they headed into the woods, bright red and black coats, red cheeks, bright eyes, and smiles on their faces. The imagery was all wound up in past and present. It recalled the fond memories of our father, of the holidays, of our childhood. We wiped the tears away and we kept smiling. That Christmas we cherished our family as we gathered together. We cherished our memories as we attempted to make new ones for our own children.

A parent's passing is hard for a child, no matter the age. I think my added depression came from knowing that he had not had an opportunity to live a full life, added to the fact he had died so young. And although we learn to live with the loss of a parent, we don't ever forget.

But when I see a herd of deer passing in November, I think of my father and the times when I was a child, when he had a full life. I remember the sights, the sounds, the cold, wet snow, the warmth of home, the smell of a roasting turkey. I remember family. With each day I'm here to share with my children, and now my grandchildren I know it is not a gift to squander or take for granted. My father has give me that gift.