This is a picture of my dad in front of our home with his van and baseball glove (two things he loved). His brother apparently used to call this van the “pig mobile” because it was always trashed. My dad was always messy. It’s interesting looking back because my parents both ran their own physical therapy offices but my dad ran it in such a way that involved papers everywhere, files brought home, piles all over the place while my mom seemingly didn’t have the same amount of work (as an adult, I came to realize that she was simply organized and left her work at her office). Yesterday, on a walk with my mom, she shared how simple my dad really was; how going through some of his stuff she came to realize that he really didn’t keep too much of anything but everything he had was usually out, visible. I like to think of him the same way — he didn’t hide much of anything and what you saw was authentically who he was. Nothing tucked away.

My dad died on Tuesday, just a few hours after I turned 40.

It’s like a pill that’s too big to swallow. It’s like a story I’m telling that isn’t my own; a story I wish I could separate myself from. Words so definitive that don’t at all capture all the feelings those words hold.

I cried in front of a cashier at the store yesterday. It’s like that — it just hits when it hits and it hits unapologetically, without any warning. It begs to be seen and I try to let it.

My dad was honest and loyal and caring. He was also simple; always easy to please and never taking more than what he needed. He was silly and playful and joyful. A man that always let his actions speak for him. Humble as the day is long. Loyal to his family.

I have so much more I want to say but I’m struggling to write about him in the past tense. I’m not there yet.

I’ve never done life without him. I don’t know if I’ll remember to turn off my sprinklers when it rains, to have my dryer vent cleaned out regularly, and to use my gas points to save a few bucks at the pump.

This morning I did my meditation in my sunroom as the sun was coming up and shining through the trees in my backyard. It’s been cloudy lately, remnants of last month’s June gloom lingering into July. But this morning, I positioned myself to be fully covered in the light and when I closed my eyes, I saw the orange of the light I was feeling warming my skin. I felt my dad and I had the realization that it’s not that those of us who have lost a loved one see their loved one in everything, it’s that they can find their loved one in anything. It’s a choice. Just like so much of what I’ve learned already on my healing journey.

Epiphanies, they’re going off like landmines.

I miss you, dad. I miss you so much. I’ll never get over losing you. I’ll also never stop finding you in everything, everywhere.

My birthday will forever bring me back to you. What a gift.

This will be the last Father’s Day I get with my dad on this earth. I realize in saying that both the blessing and the curse. My heart has been heavy for months and the processing of it all has me questioning how far I’ve really come in healing — like I have a toolbox full of tools but haven’t found the one to do the trick.

I’m reading a book right now that’s written by a Buddhist monk and talks about the middle way. When I reflect further on the tools I have in conjunction with this idea of a middle path, I begin to consider that not everything is meant to be fixed. Maybe the goal isn’t to conquer anything but to just be with everything. The middle way.

This year started with my dad helping coach Sonny’s t-ball team. His symptoms started with his balance — I sent the coach an email suggesting he not invite my dad out on the field, that he’s better off assisting the kids with getting their helmets on and finding their bats. We spent months taking him to appointments, lab draws, virtual visits, networking with friends of friends who may lend us the answers we were searching for. And then we got the answer we were searching for and I immediately missed not knowing — A diagnosis only one in a million receive. No cure. No treatment. Rapidly progressive. Always fatal. And just like that, the impermanence of life showed up on our doorstep.

My dad was a doer, never a talker; his actions have always spoken louder than his words. He’s humble to a fault and wonderfully idiosyncratic — the only man I know to eat yogurt using a writing pen or put tortilla chips in his cargo pants pocket or nap face down halfway in a room and halfway in a hallway making whoever finds him wonder if he’s just been murdered. He’s incredibly honest and as loyal as the day is long. I miss him so much already.

Ordinarily my dad would read this Father’s Day tribute with happy tears in his eyes, beaming with pride; he’d sift through the comments and light up over comments left from both old friends and complete strangers. Even with so much of him gone already, he still lights up in ways that remind me that he’s still in there.

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.” -Pema Chodron

Dad, I love you.