Daddy's Girl

My dad’s birthday was yesterday.  He would have been 98 years old. He wasn’t crazy about turning 90, so I’m positive he is glad to be where he is now, rather than celebrating with cake and ice cream here on earth. I miss him. I miss going to visit him and talking about nothing at all, or reminiscing about trail riding, or hearing stories about his childhood. I miss his hugs and his pinches and his laugh. I miss his joy.

The final birthday we celebrated with Dad here on earth was his 90^th. Like I said, he wasn’t that excited about turning 90. That birthday was the first time my dad looked old to me. I guess it was then that I knew for sure that he wasn’t going to be around here much longer. The present I had for him was a framed picture, and he looked at it like he wasn’t sure how it worked. He tried to take it apart. His eyes weren’t engaged in all that was happening, and it seemed like he realized that. He tried hard to put on a happy face. We have many pictures from that day, and I wish I loved them, because it was our last big gathering with him present. I try to love them. I just can’t. To me, those pictures don’t look like my daddy.

Dad died on December 9, 2009, not even two months later. He slept a lot in those final months. Sometimes I would visit him and just talk anyway, in case a part of him was awake but it was too much effort to for him to show that part to me. He did have some lucid, wide awake moments as well. Honestly, if he was awake enough to hold my hand, I considered it a victory. Even though I hated seeing this once vibrant, active man in this condition, I still cherished those days with him. I didn’t want them to end.

The last words I heard him say came on December 1. I was used to him sleeping a lot at that point, and it had been a couple weeks since he had been awake when I visited, so even to get just one phrase out of him, as I came in, was a blessing. He asked me, "How have you been?" He was still my dad, still caring about me, to the very last. I stayed for most of an hour, just the two of us. It was my last time to be his little girl. There is almost nothing I miss more than being Charlie Arnold’s little girl.

Love you, Dad. Heaven is a better place because of you, just like earth was. Give Mom a hug and kiss from me. You were amazing parents and amazing people, and you are missed.