Have Your Cake and Eat It, Too

On the sweet love that lives on

Jul 18, 2024

DARE TO BE DRY is sobriety focused. But you don’t have to have ever had a problematic tango with alcohol to be here and feel resonance. This is the space where I get curious and invite whatever parts of me want to step up that day. For decades I spent so much time and energy doing. Writing reminds me of the importance of simply being. It slows me down. I’ve learned I don’t like the pace in the fast lane.

My “hero post” explaining what my heart wants from this space and what it DARES TO BE
One of my most vulnerable essays letting you know I Was That Kind of Drinker
I love writing about parenting - it teaches me so much. Here are two of my favorites: Preparing to Launch and Trusting the Mother in Me

I am doing things differently this week. Rather than sending my essay on Friday, I’m tossing it at you a day early. Today is my late father’s birthday. He would be 77. I find myself wondering where that saying came from. My late father. Sure, it sounds a lot gentler than my dead dad. But, when and why did we start referring to people we’ve lost as late?

If you knew my dad, he was never late for the party. He was the party.

My dad, affectionally known as Pa by his grandchildren, had a tradition of slamming his face in his birthday cake. I can’t remember exactly which birthday he decided to give that a try, but it was sometime during his 6th decade here on this planet. He told no one he was going to do it, he just went for it. Tears (screams) ensued from a few young toddler grandchildren who stood by watching (why would someone DO that!?!?!) but as time passed, and as traditions tend to, this one grew on us. And the grandkids (hell, all of us) learned to love and look forward to Pa’s face plant.

John Steele (my dad) loved his birthday. He called July his “birthday month”. From the 4th of July right through the end of the month, he celebrated and invited anyone who was as carefree as him to join in. He never let aging slow down his enthusiasm for truly living life with gusto. Friends and family gathered for his 70th birthday and with his own smaller cake he showed us all how to welcome in another year of life.

We lost our life of the party on March 3, 2020. Right before the world shut down, we said our last sweet goodbyes to Dad. Birthday cake never tasted the same after that day. Fortunately, we were able to celebrate his life with a wake and funeral the way us Irish Catholics are accustomed to. Dad’s wake was the last one that the funeral home had before they were forced to close for months due to the pandemic.

I recall being in a fog those few weeks after laying him to rest. It all felt surreal. A virus causing so much havoc on our world, keeping us all apart, indoors and scared. Part of me was grateful for the pandemic. It was a distraction from the raw reality of not having Dad here in this world anymore. But then I would turn on the news and see family after family lose a loved one to Covid, not having the opportunity to have their own bedside vigil like we did, not having the opportunity to gather together for wakes and funerals to hold each other up. I felt immense gratitude for having been able to do that, side by side with my siblings. We would joke that Dad checked out when he did because he never would have been able to socially distance. It was like he knew what was coming, where this world was headed and said, “time to check out of this clambake” (one of his many expressions).

Another one of his expressions, what he always said to me, to my kids, to his whole family: Who loves you baby?!?!?

I think it is important to tell those we love that we love them. But there is just something “extra” about phrasing it as a question. It sinks a bit deeper. It forces the recipient of that love to recognize the answer and name it. YOU. YOU love me deep. No matter. Always.

On the first birthday of his that we had to face without him, we gathered at his happy place, Pa’s beach. And we spread his ashes.

Pa loved the ocean. And boy, did he love his grandkids

And then we all put our face in the cake. Because. Tradition.

A year before losing him, I ran the Marine Corp Marathon. He was so thrilled about it, having been a proud Marine. He sent me a Marine Corp hat to wear while training. I wore it on my long runs hoping his support would help push and carry my tired legs.

He wanted to be there so bad on race day. It was in D.C (we live outside Boston). His mobility kept him from being there physically on the sideline. But I carried him with me that day. Actually, he carried me. Many family members downloaded the app that could track me in real time, seeing which mile I was approaching.

The first voicemail I retrieved after crossing the finishing line was this one from him:

1×

0:00

-0:12

Since working a program, I’ve learned how very similar grief work is to that of recovery.

What I’ve learned (and unlearned and learned again) is that there is no time stamp on grief.

There is no time stamp on recovery.

You weave and grieve.

The work of sobriety has taught me that the goal is the process, not the outcome. It is a marathon, not a sprint. You can count your days just like you count your miles, but recovery is a race that never truly ends. There is no finish. But you do get stronger. And less scared on the days you feel weak.

Today I feel strong. Today I smile knowing my dad is super proud of the path I am walking. And I take him with me. On the days I don’t feel as strong, especially on those days, I look in the mirror and say, who loves you baby?