Originally written in honor of dad’s birthday September 2012

Manuel Pacheco Jr Class of 1961

Since dad died, I have had thoughts about random life moments that I wanted to share with him; jokes I wanted to tell; gossip I wanted to whisper and work drama I needed to vent. I would have these split-second urges to pick up the phone and call him. The urges to call started happening less and less as the reality of his death started to settle in our lives. I struggled with how to stay connected to dad.
I tried talking to him in the car, but then I’d start crying while driving. I didn’t like the odd looks I’d get from the other drivers when they realized I didn’t blue tooth ear piece. Awkward!
I tried writing him letters, but I couldn’t finish one. There were just so many things I wanted to say and I’d get the paper soaked with tears before I could finish. I took up writing about him, instead of, to him. The reflections have been healing for me, but, even that, was not enough to feel connected to dad.
I was still looking to find a way to share the random thoughts, the tender moments with the family, and the precious sight of beautiful things. When I’d find myself wishing dad could see what I saw or hear what I was hearing, I’d make a quick mental note, hoping he was “listening or watching.”
I guess I should have taken my own advice. When the kids would say they wished Papa could see them do something, we would tell them, “Papa can see you from heaven.” They would look up and search the heavens for signs of Papa. My Daniel, only two and a half, would search with such intensity. He has moved past the disappointment of not “seeing” Papa, although we have to be careful when we are talking about “going to see Papa at the VA cemetery.” Now, we say “we’re going to pray at Papa’s cemetery.”
We have embraced Papa’s spirit and the little signs he leaves for us; a beautiful Cardinal sunbathing in the backyard, a sudden strong breeze, a “papa song” seemingly coming on out of nowhere, or blinding sunlight at the exact moment we are wondering if Papa could see us now. I can feel his presence all around us. I feel like I’m getting his notes to me, but how do I get my notes to him.

It wasn’t until Julia got her latest postcard from a friend of mine, Lynda Daniel, that I put it all together. Lynda has been sending Julia postcards from her and David Daniel’s trips around the world for several years now. Sharing the beautiful landmarks and scenery from Paris to Germany to New York to San Francisco, has been an adventure for our whole family. Dad loved checking the mail and reading those postcards. I guess it was the mail carrier in him, delivering each one with care to Julia.

The postcard pictures are beautiful! The notes are short, but descriptive and always leaving us feeling like we could see, feel, hear and smell everything first hand. Lynda’s postcards gave me an idea. What if I could send “postcards to heaven” that capture the random life moments and pictures of my life’s beautiful scenery, my family? Over the last year, they would have read something like this…..

Dear Dad—
Cheraty’s miracle was realized today. Little Lily was born. She is so beautiful. Take a look!
Miss You!

Dear Dad—
You would be so proud of David and his baseball team. Doesn’t he look so handsome in his baseball uniform? I promise, he is not wearing his baseball cap backwards.
Love you!

Dear Dad—
Julia is still at it. She is still singing in choir and working hard at her Algebra and Spanish. I promise, we are taking care of your baby. She misses you so much! Did you see how much taller she is than me now?
Thinking of you!

Dear Dad—
Did you see our little athlete? Olivia loved her time in soccer! She is so motivated. You would be so proud of her.
Missing You!

The more I practiced doing this, the more connected I felt to dad. I didn’t need to send long letters or talk to dad for hours on end, to feel connected to him. With my heart open, I receive his messages and I send postcards to heaven.

Dear Dad—
Happy Birthday! I miss you so…
Wish you were here!

This sustained me for a year while I continued to look for ways to remember dad. We had a gathering of family on the one year anniversary of his death. I shared the piece and got vintage postcards printed up for all of us to share our own “postcards to heaven” little messages of our lives. It was beautiful!

When dad came home from the hospital he would sit outside on the back patio and soak in natures beauty. He loved looking at Donald’s Angel Trumpets. I loved looking at him looking at the Angel Trumpets. It was as if he were trying to memorize their beauty. One day, after he came inside, I snapped a picture of them, so I could forever remember what he saw. What I saw inspired me…

Angel Trumpets

They bloom in the morning
They sway in the wind
Singularly beautiful
Collectively breathtaking
Each trumpet
unfolding
Seemingly blowing a heavenly sound
Announcing the glory of God

-Hope Pacheco

June 2014

Dear Daddy,

This was the third Father’s Day without you. I can hear you saying now,“Aye mijita! I’m still with you.” Most of the time, I believe you are still with me because I can feel your presence, especially here at home. But there are times when “knowing” that you are with me isn’t enough. Sometime I feel guilty wishing you were here with me and the kids. We miss you so much. If we could have just one more day with you, but then I remember how much you were ready to go and I stop myself from wishing you were here.I have stopped myself from really remembering and writing about those last few days. It was too painful, but today, I feel ready. Please indulge me in a long letter.
I remember the last few moments of you being somewhat lucid. The night before was the most difficult. You were not yourself. We were losing control of your body and reality. Tita and Manuel spent the night to help me and Donald with the night rotation. That was the longest 24 hours. We were scared for you. You kept trying to get up but your legs didn’t work. We didn’t know your organs were failing. Your will was strong. You seemed to be fighting for the dignity to control your body. Donald and Manuel helped you We even took off the door in the restroom to try to get you in and out. When you finally drifted off into sleep, we could still hear you talking to those who were waiting for you at heaven’s gate.  I wondered if you really saw them, Angel, your 4 year old son who would be a 37 year old man today and Grandma Lala, your mama. Were they calling you home?
The nurse finally made it to the house it the morning and helped us get you cleaned up and medicated. You were in and out of reality. All the girls came over. I honestly can’t tell you who was there. It was all so much of a whirlwind. I know they saw you and wanted to help you and feed you and give you water. I don’t know for sure, but I think they weren’t ready to accept you were actively dying. Your organs were failing and you wouldn’t be with us much longer. If I hadn’t been with you, worrying and watching every detail of this journey beside you, I think I would have not been as accepting of reality as I was. I know they questioned decisions you made and I made, and I would too if I were in their shoes.
I was honored to be there with you. You were never a burden, but the weight of the decisions was a lot to carry alone. Don’t get me wrong, I leaned on everybody I could. We all pitched in to help in our own way. But being the person responsible for your medical care and your funeral plans and your belongings made me feel isolated.
You know I leaned on Donald to help me through. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Mom was a huge help of course. But at times, I did feel overwhelmed trying to balance work and kids and your care. I think back to those days and I don’t even remember the kids. I remember moments and events before your diagnosis and only if I see a picture of them during your treatment do I remember them during that time.
Mona made it to the house that morning to see you. You seemed to be waiting for her. I left y’all alone for a while. I remember walking back in the room and you telling her you “were ready to go.” For a split second, I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to tell you to fight, to stay with us. But, I had seen you struggle over the last month and come to terms with your decision about your health. I watched you makes lists and try to get your “affairs in order.” I saw you keep a smile on your face in front of visitors, happy to help them feel better about your condition and then cry in despair for  your mama when you thought no one was watching. I saw you wrestle with the demons of your past as you searched for the faith of your childhood. I saw you redeemed when realized God never left you and that he was preparing a place for you in heaven ready to receive you when the time came. I saw you live each day to its fullest, not knowing if that day was going to be your last. You were living and not fearing each day to the end. When you saw the split second look of fear on my face, I could see the doubt you had to leave this world. You reached out your hand to me and asked “You gonna be alright baby? You know what to do?” My heart and soul wanted to scream…“No daddy, I’m not gonna be ok. I don’t know what I’m going to do without out you!!” Instead, I grabbed your hand and said “I’ll be alright. I know what to do. You taught me everything I need to know. We got everything handled. It’s ok to go.” With that, you exhaled for what felt like the last time and said “I’m ready.” I called the nurse in you’re your medication and you drifted off to sleep. You remained unconscious until you died several hours later. I KNOW you are surrounded by love. You are whole and healed and strong and at peace. So, I stop myself for wishing you here with me.

Until we meet again at Heaven’s gate.

Love,

Hope

My dad had this habit of collecting business cards. He would say, “You never know when you will need to call them up again.”  I’d roll my eyes and think about how fat his wallet was getting. Every time that episode of Seinfeld would come on, the one with George and his wallet, I’d tell my dad to watch it. He didn’t think it was that funny.
Dad really did know everybody and could find just about anybody to fix anything. Business card or not, my dad knew where to do business. His last day of what we thought was good health, three days before he died, he and my mom were driving our older neighbor’s car to a shade-tree mechanic to get the brakes fixed. I mean, who else would be helping people do business on their last days on earth. My dad!
He would take neighbors or friends to apply for social security, for VA benefits, to look for work. He would take people to their court appointments and made so many referrals to his lawyer that I think he might have been getting some kind of commission. My dad believed in giving someone the shirt off his back if he needed to. I miss him so much.
I had been carrying his wallet with me since he died. I kept in my purse and then in my car. I didn’t go through it for a while. I could hear my dad’s voice telling me to “STAY OUT OF MY WALLET!”  Since I was a kid, I had been so curious about that wallet. I wondered what he had in there. Pictures? Money? What?! Sometimes, I’d try to sneak a peek, but I’d get as far as the driver’s license and he’d catch me and tell me to stay out of his wallet. What I came to find out when I looked in his wallet was all that I already knew about my dad. His most important pieces of information, what he valued and believed in were all right there, in his wallet.
He had an assortment of business cards. They were the essentials—social worker, attorney, doctor, and of course, his car man, TV man, tree man and air condition guy. He had his life insurance card, ATM card, one credit card and his 2.00 bill. That was dad in a nutshell. Nothing more, nothing less. His life was wrapped up between two pieces of leather. There was no big mystery. All his advice was right there, in his wallet. He would say to always keep 2.00 in your pocket, to have at least one emergency credit card, to plan for the future with life insurance and to have people you could call if you needed them for services. At the very back of his wallet, I found my own business card. What a collection!

I remember trying to clean out dad’s room right after he died. I made a plan. I was going to go in his room, throw out, pack up and pass on dad’s stuff. Lots of people offered to help, but I didn’t take anyone up on their offer. I felt selfish doing it, but I wanted to do it on my own. I had this “pull the band-aide off” attitude. I was just going to go in there and do it. I didn’t want to have to deal with anyone’s grief except my own.

I remember nagging dad to throw some of his things away. Who needs a collection of Crown Royal velvet bags? Or shirts so worn you could see right through them? Or dictionaries and thesauruses that had missing pages? Throwing things away, that I’d seen him keep for years, felt like the right thing to do. Then, I’d come across things that I couldn’t bear to throw away. I spent about 3 hours in his room, crying, sorting, smelling, holding, folding, hanging, but very little throwing away. Through the years, Dad would clear his clutter every now and then, but as I sorted through his things, I was glad he didn’t really listen to my nagging. I would have not had the chance to find bits and pieces of my dad, still here, in his room, waiting for a home. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” right? I know dad is having a good laugh right now. I get it Dad! Those Crown Royal bags, I’ll give to Olivia to hold her crystal treasures, the worn shirts, I’ll use the material for a quilt to give to my sisters (some day), and the dictionaries and thesaurus, well, I’ll keep them for me and wait for the day my kids nag me to clear my clutter.

January 2012
It’s been about three months since daddy died. Some days, it seems like so long ago, other days, it feels like yesterday. Every now and then, it doesn’t seem like it happened at all. I miss him so much it hurts. The tears still sting, my heart still races, and it’s hard to breathe. I try to tell myself it’s only in the quiet moments that I let myself feel it all. It’s funny because I think I have control of the “quiet moments” but there are sudden and unexpected reminders of dad. It happens during the hustle and bustle of the day when I see a picture or hear a song or smell his cologne and I pause and tear up and try to breathe. But no matter how much I try to hold back the tears, they come and they sting and no matter how much I try to breathe, my chest hurts from the heavy breathes and I can hear the pounding of my heart echo loudly in my ears.
There are times that I that I think about dad and I smile or laugh, usually, it is courtesy of my kids. They keep Papa’s memory alive. Olivia moved into his room. Her nutcracker collection keeps his military flag company. She wanted to keep “him” in the room, so we left the flag. Julia has yet to take off Papa’s oversized Longhorn jacket. She says he keeps her warm. David says he wishes Papa could see him growing up. Daniel, oh Daniel, he chatters “Papa” all day. He says good-bye to his picture as he passes it on the refrigerator. He waves to him up in heaven and he still sprays Papa’s cologne all over himself just like the two of them would do anytime they leave the house. The scent lingers in the air, just like the memories.