Be My Valentine

I am always a little sad on February 14^th.

It isn’t all because I don’t have a Valentine. I mean, I’m not the Queen of the Lonely Hearts Club, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that this sickly sweet holiday doesn’t make me feel a little low. There is something to be said for someone making you feel totally loved and appreciated. With perhaps a little sprinkling of dark chocolate (the good kind).

That being said, the hollow feeling in my heart is 80% because I miss the Valentine’s Days of years past. My mother made this day so special for my family, that it is hard to imagine it could ever be as good without her.

Every single Valentine’s Day for as far back as my memory goes, my brother and I would awaken to the sight of hearts and cupids, and chocolates galore strewn all over our rooms. Imagine that: Being a little kid, and opening your sleepy eyes to see a festival of pink and red hearts everywhere. Even the glass of water on my nightstand had a heart floating in it. I was awake and dreaming at the same time. When I moved to Toronto, she mailed me huge parcels of chocolate.

Just like our birthdays, we got cake for breakfast. Yeah, I know. Pretty awesome, right? My mother outdid everyone else. We never got just one single birthday card or Valentine: We got three or more cards, each one filled with more humour and love than the last one. And every year was better than the one before.

There was never any question about how much my mother loved us. Every single holiday was celebrated with such joy and heart. Even when she got sick, she made sure our birthdays were special. Less than a month before she died, she ordered a birthday cake to the hospital for me. She didn’t want me to feel like my day was any less special. In her hospital room, she sang Happy Birthday to me. It was the last time I ever heard her sing, her voice etched in my heart forever.

The lonely part of Valentine’s Day for me is that I have seen what true love looks like. My expectations might be unrealistically high, but I don’t want to settle. Life is too short and precious for lacklustre love. Truthfully, I cannot help but want what my parents shared. A friendship and love so full and real, it was like they were made for each other. No other partnering in the world would have made sense. There was something so special about how much my parents loved each other.

She was the funny girl to his straight man. Sometimes they switched roles. They played off each other in a way that was so effortless and so natural. Even as a kid, it was so easy to see that THAT was what marriage was supposed to be like.

When my mother got sick, my father was destroyed on the inside, just like my brother and I. But she never ever saw him crumble. When we cried, he held it together for us. When my mother went into the hospital for the final time, my father slept on a lawn chair next to her bed every night for nearly two months. When my mother was scared and in pain, he held her hand and kissed her forehead. And when she asked to be put into a drug-induced coma because the pain was uncontrollable, he let her go. They would have been married for 34 years.

On Valentine’s Day, I cannot help but think about what kind of person my someday Valentine will be. The holiday has been so clouded by commercialism it’s hard to see through the fog of candy hearts and bouquets of red roses. What it comes down to is this: The material things don’t matter. What matters is real and honest LOVE. What will matter to me is that my Valentine holds my hand when I’m scared, and picks me up when I am down. That he is golden-hearted and kind. And that he makes me laugh, even if there is nothing to laugh about.

This post is a tribute to just such a man. My father. The best man I know.