+1 year

One year ago today, my dad died. It wasn’t unexpected. He had stage four lung cancer, which we had known about since late 2019. Our family had gotten to visit him the prior week, to celebrate his birthday as well as Mother’s Day. During that visit, he told us everything he wanted in his funeral, talked about some finances, all of that stuff. At that time, I still thought we had months, or part of me still hoped we had years left; so I remember thinking to myself that we will revisit this conversation again, we’ll get to have more time to plan this big event, the funeral. Like a wedding.

And that wasn’t the last time I saw him. I got to be there by his side, one year ago today, while he died.

Anyway, that’s the tearful beginning to a post that I feel… obligated?… no, not obligated… This is a post that I feel compelled to write. That’s not even the right word either. It’s just a funny thing, trying to figure out how to properly honor someone who has died. I desire to honor my dad, especially on this date, and I guess writing up a few words on a blog post is the best I can come up with. So, I don’t feel obligated or even compelled to write this. I don’t even have a plan as to what I want to write about. But I do want to honor my dad. I want to remember him. I want to.

My dad was really funny. He wasn’t the dad-joke kind of funny. He was the kind of funny that everyone thought was funny. He was the kind of dad who all my friends knew, and had memories with. He was always so easy to meet and introduce to new people. I realized this more acutely once I entered college and beyond — that any new person I introduce him to is going to instantly love him. (This is true of my mom, too.) My parents are very warm people, very friendly, and very easy to talk to. They are both always great about taking an interest in whoever they are meeting. And they both always have the any-friend-of-my-daughter’s-is-a-friend-of-mine vibe.

A number of years ago, I had the idea to start a Twitter account called @notmattmetcalf. It would just be a place where I could catalog all of my dad’s strange colloquialisms. “That’s nothing to shake a stick at”, “I’d hope to shout”, “She was madder than a boiled owl”, “He was hopped up on scoop”. I never made the account because my dad was a successful architect, and I’m sure in some circles, he was known for that, and not for his strange sense of humor. Matt (my husband, yes, who has the same first name as my dad) talked me out of starting the Twitter account because he was afraid a colleague of my dad’s might google “Matt Metcalf” and find some strange Twitter account with two followers and turn up their business-professional nose at it. But if I had started that Twitter account, I would have a better list of great Matt Metcalf-isms.

I think the best way to honor someone is to be true to who they are as a person. (Who they were…? No… who they are. I believe in resurrection, so who they are.) My dad would turn in his grave (and by that I mean that his ashes would stir around in the Wall-of-Ashholes, where he resides — a columbarium he designed, with a nickname he coined) if we got all sentimental when we remember him. I mean, he was sentimental a little bit, so some of that wouldn’t bother him. But I think the best way to honor him, at least to honor the relationship I had with him, is to make jokes, to laugh, and to be happy for him.

Losing a parent is hard, and losing my dad was hard. But, something that made losing him a lot less hard than it could have been was seeing how he felt about dying. From the time he was diagnosed with the cancer that killed him until the time I talked to him on the phone after they recommended he be put on hospice, he was consistent: I have peace. He was at peace with how he lived his life, how he was leaving it, and what was coming next. And his peace about that has given me so much peace over these past 365 days.

So, if you knew my dad, feel free to message me with a story that you remember about him. Or not. Maybe just have a Bud Light in honor of him.

Miss you, Dad. See you soon.