Goodbye, Dad. We love you.

This one is part super-sad-personal-journal entry, part Mike update.

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In a different world, on a different timeline of events, and barring one terrible day, I could have had my brother by my side at the funeral of our father, who passed away unexpectedly on December 30th.

Instead, I attended the funeral, flew back to Denver, took a deep breath, and told Mike myself, in the nursing home he can't physically leave, that Dad won't be coming back. His deep, guttural sobs shook my soul as his brain slowly woke up to what I was saying. We held each other tight, and we cried together. With his traumatic brain injury, things are challenging to understand, so I had to use very straightforward language.

"Dad passed away.

Dad is dead.

Dad's funeral was on Wednesday.

We're not going to see Dad again"

The alone-ness of all of it feels a lot more alone-y now without Dad. I'm infinitely grateful for my inner strength, the privilege of my own mental health, the financial stability of my career, and my ability to come alongside Mike in the absence of parental support. I'm okay with being a single mama with two kids plus our "Uncle Mike." Our mom didn't reach out at all, and that is okay. Our dad's widow, who was supportive prior to Dad's passing and came to visit with him one time since the accident over two years ago, informed me hours after our father's passing that I was a disappointment to him because I didn't visit him enough.

She visited Mike one time since his accident. One time.

She told me to continue with my "therapy."

She can count on that. Because my generation knows that therapy is a positive thing, and never a weakness.

I'm working through sitting in the knowing in my heart that it isn't true that while showing up for Mike, I didn't show up enough for Dad. She is working through her grief in ways that are hurting others, and that's okay.

I wasn't welcome in her home after I came out, and that's okay, too.

In light of how I show up for Mike, I have to work through believing that "disappointment"doesn't even come close. Our dad saw me, and he thanked me every chance he had for what I've done for Mike, up to and including his last text to me three days before his death.

We are two gay siblings, working through harder things than most humans ever have to comprehend, and I will never stop showing up for him. Never.

That is what unconditional love is.

I can do this on my own. I am strong. And Mike is strong. We have our friends, and we have the Bomberger family. Add in some pretty cool staff at an underfunded nursing home, some dedicated drag queens, and a whole lotta queer and allied people who give a shit, and we got this. Together.

While I can support Mike financially for things like clothing and snacks and other things that the nursing home doesn't cover, I took a leap in December and created a list of things that he could use. I'm so glad that I reached out, because the emotional support we felt from the fountain of necessities and requests to re-fill that list were overwhelmingly, powerfully, some of the most secure and connected-to-community feelings I have felt since his accident. (Okay, maybe ever.) The love from the Bomberger family alone has been enough to re-ignite my feelings that the concept of "family" is real.

We are not alone.

We have you.

We are so grateful.

Hey, you.. reach out. Let's go visit Mike together. He likes Wendy's chicken nuggets more than McDonalds. He says, "yes please" to the Frosty. Strawberry, if it's in season, otherwise chocolate will do. My treat. We'll do lunch, and you'll get to meet the other nursing home residents that I consider part of our family of misfits, too. I wish I could talk about those magical humans here, but.. you know.. HIPPA and stuff. You'll have to come along to find out. :) I'll just say here.. even if Mike is blessed to be admitted to a better nursing home with better care, I will never stop visiting the amazing humans that live there today.

There's also a Mexican restaurant on the lake a few blocks away called "Los 3 Garcias." They know me, and they are kind on hard days after visiting Mike. I've cried in that parking lot too many times. Sometimes, that coconut margarita and a debrief with a friend is just the medicine. Let me know if you're down for some quesadillas and tequila tears.

Dad, you taught us to be empathetic people. You showed us unconditional love in the face of all of the hard things. You were one of the most selfless, hardworking people I've ever met. You taught us to always wear a helmet, and that's why Mike is still here and there's a hole the size of his body in the windshield of a red Porsche 911. We won't stop telling the stories of your humor and how you always showed up for the people you loved. I've got Mike, but please send me your wisdom always. It's fucking hard over here.

https://www.tributearchive.com/obituaries/34269976/william-b.-bomberger