just like you taught me

I'm a storyteller.

I got it from my dad, who got it from his mom, who got it from I don't know where.

Lately I can't stop thinking…
I want my father to tell me the story of his death.

Did you know you were dying? Was it painful? When it began, did you have time to think about me? Were you alone in the end?

I know this isn't getting me anywhere, but further into those days of despair that seem to pour into the night and onward to my dreams.
If I'm lucky, the dreams take a positive spin and for a night, trick me into thinking he is still on this earth.

Like the dream where I was on a scavenger hunt at some giant antique store and my dad was there to tell me where everything was. It was his stuff I was rummaging through (which he hated in real life) frantically like it was life or death if I found it. Also, someone was chasing me.
My dad was right behind me at every bend as I picked up object after object that as I write now are still so vivid in my mind - his old watches, travel mug collection (that I inherited) stacks of mail, old coins from everywhere, nameless doodads he had a reason for keeping.
In this dream, he was there right next to me, behind or alongside me, telling me to hang in there, that I would find what I was looking for. He looked exactly the same and even shuffled with his (toward the end) signature slight limp, wearing his ratty house slippers, with his big t-shirtless belly.
His voice was soothing but full of strength, leaving you with the feeling he could break out into a joke at anytime. It was him. It was really him.
At the end of this dream, he gave me a hug and told me not to worry, he will always be here to help me find what I'm looking for. Then I woke up.

Or like the recent tragedy-induced dream where I was on a cruise ship going through a Tsunami, while holding onto to the top of the turbulent ship and the other hand was holding my phone, calling my dad.
In this dream, I wanted to tell him the story of my sinking ship. He wouldn't believe how fast the ship was going or how gray the sky had become. He would want to hear how I was hanging on and how as soon as it came to a stop, I would tell him I'd hop off and would be home soon. This was a dream after all and in dreams you can do that. Hang on to cruise ships in rough waters and make phone calls.
Before I made it off the ship or told him any stories, I woke up.

Call him because he was the first person I always called. No matter where I was, what country I was in or what was going on - good or bad.

Like the time I called him from Austin, Texas after seeing it for the first time and telling him I belonged there. Or the time a few years after I called him from London to tell him I was lonely and didn't know if I belonged there.

I used to imagine if I were in a plane crash who would I call if I had the chance. The answer was always my dad.

Stories are what made me who I am.
Stories percolated in my head for years until one day I picked up a guitar and brought them to life.
Stories put me on the roads of America, in taverns & cafes, on the couches of strangers.
Stories propelled me into the life of a touring folk songwriter.
And one day, stories flew me to Europe where I met and fell in love and now live with my Austrian husband.
Stories gave me my daughter and my new life.
Stories taught me to be grateful.

The day my dad's story ended, I was celebrating at my baby shower. The one my sister decided last minute for me.
Eating Costco heavily frosted cake. Playing baby shower games like 'who will our baby look like, me or my husband' and 'how many baby items can you come up with that start with B.' Opening teeny tiny baby socks and onesies, little jeans & sweaters that almost seemed made for a doll.
All the while, creating new stories that I would someday tell. "Remember the day we had the baby shower and..."

Unknowingly, hours before, my father's story had come to end.

He was invited to my baby shower and because I am only in the country once a year for Christmas, I was disappointed when he said no.
My brother also said no but he was clear why - it's a chick thing.
My younger brother - well, it was being hosted in part by his wife (meaning his house) = he was cornered.

My dad, had a business trip. Nothing major but it had to be done and anyway, he loved traveling. The few years prior to his death, he had to slow way down so any chance to hop on a quick flight and he was ready. Besides, it was only for a night and my husband (who he loved) and I would be spending New Years Eve with him a few days later.
Instinct maybe, but I kissed him goodbye several times that night, which turned out to be the last time I saw him.
I hugged him harder than I ever had and I even ran out after his car for one last goodbye - making it four goodbyes in a span of a few minutes.
He said he was only going for one night and would see me in a few days, but my heart knew different.

In retrospect, the morning when I was getting ready for the baby shower (very pregnant and feeling very fat) storming around very grumpy & irritated, unable to settle, makes sense to me now.
Something was off and all the way up to driving the hour it took to get to my brother & sister in laws house where they were hosting it, was spent telling off other drivers, whining about being uncomfortable, feeling like I didn't want to go to a party even if it was for me.

My papa's story was already over at that point.

In some ways, I believe he was already with me. Back at my sister's where we were staying, while I stomped around trying to squeeze into the clothes I packed weeks before that were already growing too tight around the middle.
I decided to wear the black dress and shoes I packed out of sheer desperation because nothing else was fitting or comfortable. Wondering at the time why on earth I even packed it thinking I didn't need a black dress & dress shoes. I'm nearly six months pregnant and I'll be lucky if I get out of my pajamas.

The same dress that turned out to be exactly what I needed for his funeral a week later.

He was probably there, rolling his eyes telling me to hurry up and get to my party, quit worrying, calm down. He had a story to tell me that at the end of my baby shower would be revealed and he needed me to be strong, surrounded by family.

When my phone rings, the first thing that comes to mind is, let it ring
I am not a fan of talking on the phone. In fact, I don't even like to take it out of my bag and see who's calling. Most times, I either turn it off or let it ring and go to voice mail and more often than not, it takes me hours, sometimes days to check messages.

This day was no different.
No different except I was in the middle of my baby shower and had a mouth full of white Buttercream frosting, which this very pregnant lady was not about to spit out.

When I looked at the name, I didn't recognize it and when that happens, you can almost guarantee I won't be answering, but because the story was already being written (unbeknownst to me) I was compelled to answer.

After a short exchange of, "Are you related to xxxxxx xxxxxxx Ledoux?" even a foggy-brained pregnant chick could make out this wasn't good.

I ended up throwing the phone to my dad's wife and ran out of the room in a panic.

Circling everyone and saying something is wrong with dad, something happened, I was told off more than once to stop jumping to (hormonal) conclusions and wait until the phone conversation ended.
Looking over at my dad's wife to see a red face full of tears was all the conclusion I needed.

To this day, I'm still shocked out of everyone in the world the morgue could have called, it was me. The daughter with a phone number only used (via sim card) a month or so out of the year.
The daughter who rarely answers her phone, if ever.
The daughter, who was nearly six months pregnant and right, smack dab in the middle of her baby shower.

Why would you leave me with this story? How can you expect me to retell this? You were supposed to come that day and if you had, maybe one of us could have had the ambulance there in time to save you. Instead of your story ending on a cold, dirty airport floor while boarding a plane, you could have had us retell it, change the ending.
Maybe we could have saved you.
Maybe I could have saved you. Me and your unborn granddaughter.

If I could go back in time, I wouldn't answer that phone and at least that part of the story would be on someone else.

It wasn't meant to be because you intended for them to call me. You weren't finished telling stories.

In moments of peace, I convince myself you gave it to me as one last gift from father to daughter.
From storyteller to storyteller.
From mentor to student.
It's in those moments, I accept your ending.

With a strong heart, I attempt to find the right words to take such a sad day and make it into a story someone would want to hear because I know this is just what you would have wanted - another story.
Your last big story.

I am a storyteller.

I got it from you, who got it from Nanny who got it from who knows where and because I can't get you to tell the story I want to hear, I have to find my own words.

I will retell it each time it feels right. Like when your granddaughter asks where is her Grandpa. I will remember as much detail as I can. I'll put a spin on it when needed and change my voice for added drama when necessary. I won't miss anything. I'll make you proud.

I'm going to retell your story
the best I can dad.

Just like you taught me.