The day after I realized my world would never be the same after losing one of my favorite people on the planet, was a day all about making choices. The choice of sinking into the pain and dwelling on what was no longer, or the choice to see it a different way. Perhaps the greatest lesson my father ever taught me came as a result of choosing the latter.
After Terry Troy passed away and I finished taking care of all the details in Ohio, I returned home to Arizona on a late flight. The next morning as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, I was feeling every ache and pain known to mankind. Thanks to my addiction to hiking, my hip labrum and glute tears we’re screaming like never before. Fighting the morning brain fog I pondered the previous life-altering thirteen days, and hoped that it had all been just a bad dream.
I quickly calculated that I had exactly eight days before the closing date of a legally binding contract on the sale of our home. Realizing that I had not packed one box, organized one drawer or donated one item, my adrenaline kicked-in and despite the exhaustion, I dragged myself to the kitchen, slammed some green tea and dove headfirst into all the joys of moving.
My husband was having health issues and unable to physically help me with packing, so the best thing I could do was to get him settled into our new temporary rental, with our two dogs. After several days of grinding away at dismantling our home, surprisingly I felt hopeful that I might just pull it off.
A couple of days later, I received a call from a transport company and was told that my father’s black GMC pick-up truck had arrived from Ohio. On my walk to meet the hauler I remember thinking how sad it was that I now had my dad’s truck. Seeing it in Arizona felt like a punch in the gut and I felt sick to my stomach. It was a harsh reminder of what had happened on May 21, 2019, and that it was not a bad dream; it was a real. When the truck driver handed me the keys, the finality of it all started to sink in. I stood next to it thinking about how much my father loved it.
After he beat cancer, his brother Joe, bought him the exact truck he’d been wanting as a gift, and it made him so happy. Before I left Ohio, I asked my uncle if he wanted me to ship it to him, and he said, “No honey, I’ve got enough shit around here that reminds me of dead people.” So that’s when I decided I wanted to keep it.
I climbed into the cab and sat there fighting back the urge to cry; taking in the lingering smell of my father’s distant cigarette smoke. I noted the white ashes that had collected all over the driver’s side floor. I remembered him sitting in his truck with his left elbow on the driver’s door, the top of his left hand with fingers-curled rested on his lips and nose. He would lean back and drive like it was as natural as breathing. He always enjoyed the simplicity of the open road, roll-the-window-down weather, a good cigarette and Bob Segar belting out classics while he meandered country backroads.
I had made the decision that I would not change anything in the truck. Not the radio stations, not the incorrect time on the clock, not the seat position. I felt like it was his truck, and I wanted it to stay that way.
When my father was still alive he had asked me to use Kelly Blue Book online to figure out the value of his truck. When I inquired about the condition, he was adamant that he had never smoked in it. It must’ve been the morphine because I knew that wasn’t true. In a way I was glad he had, because sitting in his truck felt like he was giving me a hug while smelling his old flannel shirt.
Still fighting back tears, I knew I had to return to the monumental tasks back at my house, so I slowly gripped the keys and reluctantly started his truck. As soon as I did, the air conditioning fan, which had been left on high, blasted out a pile of cigarette ashes that hit me directly in the face and landed all over the front of me, smearing my black tank top as I wiped it away. I sat back in the seat, rubbed the debris from my eyes and started to laugh out loud. I said, “Thanks a lot Dad! I’m so glad you didn’t smoke in your truck!”
I knew the dousing of the ashes was a message from Terry that he didn’t want me to be sad. He always hated it when I cried, so there was no doubt that he had planned that little surprise so I wouldn’t.
The next day I drove his truck to the barn where I kept my horse. On the way there I talked to my father like he was riding next to me. I choked back tears as I said, “Dad, I’m not sure how I’m going to feel when you arrive in Arizona. I just can’t wrap my head around it.” The thought of my father showing up as a box of ashes was weighing on my heart, but I had a million other things to worry about and he wasn’t due to arrive for a few more days, so I pushed it down.
After getting grubby at the barn I raced home to jump into the shower. I was feeling stressed about everything on my plate, and praying I could hold it together long enough to meet all my deadlines. I just kept telling myself to stay focused on everything I had to accomplish that day and if I could do that, it would all work out.
As I lathered up my hair, I heard the doorbell. I yelled, “Perfect! Just perfect!” I decided to rinse and ignore it. Then I heard it ring, again. Then, again. I shut off the water and grabbed a towel, wrapped my head up in it and then the doorbell rang, again. Feeling irritated I wondered, “What could possibly be so damn important?” I ran through the living room with my turban towel, quickly slipping into my leopard print, velour bathrobe, and when I reached the foyer I heard the bell ring, again. I grabbed the front door handle and as I yanked the giant ten foot tall door wide open I curtly said, “Who the hell is on fire?”
Mike, our sweet mailman, was standing there with a box. He handed it to me and said, “Well, here he is.” I froze for a moment and then said, “What? What did you say?” As he handed me the white USPS Priority Mail box with a black label that read: CREMATED REMAINS, my heart sank.
Mike said, “I don’t know why I said that—it just came out of my mouth. I’m sorry, but I need your signature.” How did he know it was a “he?” Feeling a little weirded-out, I signed the receipt and handed it back. I stood there staring at the box in disbelief, noting it cost $ 94.65 to ship my father. I must’ve looked stunned because he quickly tried to break the tension and said, “Um, hey! That’s a nice robe!” As I turned to go back inside I realized that I probably looked like a complete lunatic. I started laughing and said out loud, “Thanks a lot Dad!”
Prior to my dad passing away, I never allowed myself to think about what it would be like not being able to see or call him, hear his voice, or get his perspective on things ever again. On the day that I spread his remains and finished running down the mountain, the message that I heard clear as a doorbell was: “Just because he’s gone and you can’t see him anymore, doesn’t mean the relationship is over.”
He’s still sending me messages, still making me laugh, and still encouraging me to be brave. What an amazing epiphany! I’m so thankful that my father taught me to make the choice to see things differently and to choose not to dwell on what remains NOT to be seen.
I choose not to think of loved ones as being gone or lost. They’re still connecting with us, loving us, and still making us laugh. I’m convinced love never ends.
Love,
Terrina
PS—In the Epilogue of my memoir All But Six, there is another very funny story involving ashes which I didn’t share here. I don’t want to spoil it for you in case you haven’t read it yet.
PPS—If you’ve already purchased my book, written a review, shared my book, blogs and posts with your friends, thank you from the bottom of my heart for the support. It takes a village to get stories heard; I’m so grateful for all of you!
