You’re missed

It’s been two weeks and one day since I held Mark’s hand and told him how much I loved him for the last time. That I wished he could stay, but not like this. That his girls would be ok and that it was time.

He squeezed my hand. It might have been a spasm. He might not have done it on purpose, but I’ll always believe that it was intentional and that he was telling me that he heard me. That he waited for me to drive through a storm so I could stroke his knee as he breathed his last and kiss his brow once he was freed from the prison of his failing body. 

I had been telling him for weeks that he’d never be alone when it mattered and that we’d hold his hand ’til the end. I’m glad that an atmospheric river didn’t make me a liar. 

A few weeks before his passing, Mark told me that he didn’t think he had long. By then, he was bed-bound, and he’d gone off food for almost a week. He had lucid dreams and lost his train of thought easily, but he concentrated hard and was intentional when he told me that I was strong and loved and that he would always be proud of me. 

He also told me that he’d take me to lunch the next time I was in town and that I should stop by for dinner more often. I told him that I’d try.

A lifelong and devout Catholic, he had deep concerns about whether Saint Peter would let him in. And despite my own appalling lack of religion, I told him with absolute conviction that St. Peter could never keep out a man who took in two girls the way he did. I kept it mostly together in the moment, but the minute I walked out of that room, I cried so hard.  

For the last decade, my stepdad fought hard and endured more pain than most. He doled out precious few words those last two weeks, but he made them count. He slept or was unresponsive during my last two visits, but they tell you that it’s good to talk to our loved ones even when they can’t talk back, so I did. Or rather, we all did. Me, my sister, my mom. We made chicken noises and talked about our kids. We told stories that he probably wished we’d forgotten. In retrospect, he probably could have done with a few less chicken noises, but such is life, and, apparently, death. 

Mark didn’t have to love us as much as he loved my mom. He didn’t have to make us his. He didn’t have to bring us into his large and loving family. He didn’t have to pay for braces (twice) or play three to five rounds of gin rummy every night after a tiring day at the warehouse. He didn’t have to sit in the freezing cold to watch me spin a flag during halftime or pick me up from my shift at the toy store. He gave me a high five before bed every night, even on the last night that we spent under the same roof. And he did it all because he wanted to. 

My stepdad loved his girls fiercely until the end and we will be ok. But damn, if he isn’t missed and always will be.