Marching

 This is the worst time of year for me. It's March. It's a march towards the worst day of my life. 

Mom and Dad on that fateful day.

I can't help it. 

A lot of it is because I feel so much unresolved guilt. There was so much I wanted to ask, so much I wanted to know. 

I also knew how depressed my dad was at the constant hospitalizations. He was so tired. 

Dad and Allison (in Jessica's arms) a few days after Alli's birth in 2014 

I remember arguing with him about this. I hated hearing words out of my mouth from him. One of the last times... the last time I had this conversation with him was when I was visiting him at the hospital in January 2015. We had the Capitals game on. They lost to Montreal. 

It would be the last time I got to interact with him in person, but I didn't know that then. He called me on my birthday. He wasn't at home yet, but he wasn't at that terrible place in Reisterstown that had my brother ready to fight someone for how the staff was treating him. 

The next two weeks are just me going through the motions these days, as I remember the lost opportunities and the horror of the text messages I was receiving those final days. 

Somewhere in a pile of rubber and steel

One day, April 2 will dawn, and I won't feel the dread and sadness that I've felt since 2015, when I awoke that morning knowing that was the day Dad would die. I don't know why we chose that day. I wish we hadn't chosen that day to turn off the ventilator; it's the day my beloved Camaro rolled off the assembly line, and now the joy of that car is forever tied to the anguish of losing my dad. 

So bear with me. Pat told me that day 8 years ago that the pain never goes away, that it just gets easier to manage. I guess I usually manage it okay, except for this time of year. But yeah, the pain is still there. 

It always will be. 

I love you, Daddy.