I’ve never been to a big Thanksgiving. It’s not that I don’t like holidays with extended family, I generally like them, but Thanksgiving is different for me. Thanksgiving for me is for my dad and me…
My parents divorced when I was two years old, and I grew up splitting my holidays between them. Christmas was always in New York, with my mom and grandparents and a bunch of cousins, and we all wore tights and shiny shoes and laughed through formal lunches until the adults released us on the tree. It was fun and stylish and I really liked it.
Thanksgiving was the exact opposite in many ways. My dad and I were getting ready in a single man’s apartment on the outskirts of Washington, DC. It was small and no frills and I loved it too.
Together we searched the supermarket for the smallest turkey (even that might be too big, but oh well). We briefly discussed making the stuffing from scratch (“We should really do that, right?”) and then bought a big bag of pre-made mixes (“It actually tastes so good!”). We had a lot of steamed Brussels sprouts, and we both preferred them over green beans. And every year we find ways to spoil mashed potatoes. We both agreed that the worst part was when we replaced the butter with extra virgin olive oil.
We cooked in our socks while listening to the radio, and when the food was done we sat at my father’s two-seater dining table. Although we never uttered formal grace, my father believed in appreciating all that we have, especially each other. So we’d look across the table, he’d smile sweetly, I’d grin, and he’d say thank you to both of us. The food we ate, all the great things that happened in our lives (“Kelsey singing her own song in a musical,” “Kelsey starting college,” “Kelsey’s new apartment and her new job,” and ”), we spent this time together. We ate while saying “Amen” and then watched a movie on TV.
I never tried to add my own gratitude to my father’s informal prayers. But I think he knew how happy I was to be with him – his beloved only child and the other half of our little family. I have never wished for a bigger, more festive holiday. I loved our little traditions, the jokes and funny memories we shared. When I was in college, my dad moved in with his partner Cindy. Cindy is a Thanksgiving pro and was able to whip up the feast on her own (although we did help, I promise). Ten years later I met and married my husband Harry. Our Thanksgiving table grew a little bigger, but our traditions remained: feet in stockings, a radio, and my dad’s big smile as he looked at me and shared his gratitude list. “Most of all, I’m so grateful to have such a wonderful daughter,” he always finishes, even as I roll my eyes. “Well, I doKelce. ”
As the years passed and my own life grew larger, Thanksgiving still felt like my father’s holiday. Even if we could only talk on the phone, he always told me how grateful he was to have such a wonderful daughter. After my daughter Margot was born, he added, “And a wonderful granddaughter.” “I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”
We planned to spend Thanksgiving 2024 together in Maryland, where he and Cindy moved a few years ago. Harry and I planned our trip and told Dad and Cindy we were going to bring pie. Then, a month before our vacation, my father was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. I was still planning on going for Thanksgiving – of course I was going. But as it turned out, the father said he had no intention of doing it. He tried to create a festive atmosphere even from a distance. If you could send me the name of a nearby restaurant, I would like to order a Thanksgiving feast for you. He texted: By then, the conversation was tiring. All the trimming! I told him I appreciated it but not to worry about us. We were fine and were invited by friends to have a delicious and cozy Thanksgiving. It wasn’t a lie, but of course it wasn’t entirely true. The whole truth was such a huge cry and hopeless sadness. I thought if I opened my mouth and spoke out, it would split me in two.
My dad started hospice the week after Thanksgiving. we visited. Margot chatted with him, recited the latest song she had learned in school, and he looked and nodded with the same sincere, attentive focus he had given her with every word and gesture since the moment he first held her. She hugged him several times and said goodbye. It seemed strange to do so when he was still himself, thin and tired, but not “actively dying,” as the hospice nurse put it. It was her gentle suggestion that if Margot were to see him one last time, it might be best to do so before that stage came. While he could still talk and listen and share the goofy inside jokes we had together. It seemed so unfair to be given only five years to share jokes and songs with the man I loved with such steadfast, patient kindness. A woman who answers the phone at 7am if you want to chat. Someone who memorized all the lyrics to the songs he wrote. The one she reached out to every time she tried to grab it, and the one who always, always reached out to her. As I watched them, I wished so much that she could spend as much time with him as she did with me. And I was so grateful for the time she spent with him. This is something I am grateful for. This, this, this.
My father passed away in early February, less than three months later. The rest of this year went by in a hurry. Lately, I’ve had parts of relative normalcy, followed by long, long periods of incredible sadness. I brush my teeth, go to work, and everything else, but I can’t say I’m back on my feet. If anything, since the seasons changed to fall, I’ve become more unsteady and navigating all of these strange first anniversaries. The day he started hospice. The last time Margot asked him, “Can I sing a song?”
But Thanksgiving is still Father’s holiday. So last month, I called Cindy and asked if I could spend some time with her. “You don’t have to eat or anything,” I told her. “We could just order pizza. Let’s just hang out and then think.” In the fog of sadness, I didn’t even know what I was looking for, but she seemed to understand somehow, perhaps because we were in the same fog. So this Thanksgiving, I’m going to get in the car and drive my family to Maryland. That way, we can all solve it together. We don’t know what the holidays will look like this year or in the future. But I know we’ll pull it together one way or another, like we’ve always done. And when I eat my Thanksgiving pizza, I look at my daughter and tell her that of all the things I’m grateful for, I’m most thankful for her. And so was her grandfather.
PS How to write a letter of condolence and a ritual to overcome grief.
Source: Cup of Jo – cupofjo.com
