Being the third child of my parents was difficult. I am long since over it, but I still remember things that I wish I didn’t. I wasn’t the first girl, I wasn’t the first son, I was “extra”. My Dad did try his best to make me feel special, he just didn’t know how. As far back as I can remember, he put up with my chattering, took walks with me until his RA made it impossible, and taught me what he wanted me to know. Alas, it wasn’t what I needed to know. He was always a good listener though and we talked a lot, when he wasn’t in pain. I miss that, I miss having him call me “Cherie” (the way the French say it). The day he went to the hospital, I told him I would see him the next weekend and he said, “I don’t think so, Cherie.” I scoffed and said he would be home. He passed from a massive heart attack the following day.
For a year, at least, I would think about something and want to tell my Dad. It would hit me all over again that he was gone. It used to bother me that I hadn’t told him that I was going to have another baby. I think he knows.