The familiar combo of guilt, grief and dread takes hold the moment I spot the Verizon bill in my mailbox.
Then the promises begin. I will cancel the service before the end of the week, not one day later. I will be financially responsible. I will no longer autopay for a cell plan I don’t use.
I drop the envelope into the recycling bin, assuring myself that good sense will prevail.
But I don’t call Verizon. I just let the task seep out of my mind. The phone connected to that account remains powered down in a shoebox, tucked between my obsolete iPod and a European travel adapter.
This monthly ritual is emotionally exhausting. I want to be smart with my spending, I really do. But I also want that service intact. It holds an irreplaceable connection to my late father.
After consolidating to one number for work and personal use, I called Verizon to learn how to save the voicemails my dad left on the phone I planned to disconnect. The service rep said some Googling would surely provide an answer. (It didn’t.) When I called back, a different rep said he once heard users could transfer messages to a CD, but he wasn’t sure how it was done. On the third call, I began to cry. That associate offered consolation, but no solution.
I placed the phone in the shoebox and added “Verizon” to my to-do list. Days turned into months. I called Verizon again. While my predicament remained unsolved, I was able to reduce my monthly fee from $40 to $15. That lessened my financial guilt, but only slightly, because I was paying to keep voicemails I didn’t play.
Soon after my father’s death, I tried to listen to them. I entered the four-digit access code, hoping the sound of his voice would help alleviate my emptiness. “Hi, Lovie,” he says brightly. My chest got tight. I disconnected. I called in once more and didn’t make it past those two words.
The first saved message arrived before my dad knew he was sick. He tells me about a planned trip to Mexico. The next 10 blur together in my memory. In many, he’s making sure I safely made it home to Manhattan after visiting him in New Jersey.
The last message is indelible. He knows his time is short. He is calling to say he loves me.
For a long while, I didn’t tell anyone about the voicemail situation. I couldn’t explain why I paid to keep recordings I didn’t have the heart to hear. My father’s death was my first experience with gut-wrenching grief and I lacked any insights on how to deal with so much pain. I silently floundered in a world that encourages people to mend and move forward.
Then my mother told me about a new acquaintance. This woman, also a widow, had shared her unique coping ritual. She would sometimes put her late husband’s button-up shirt on backward, sliding her hands through the armholes, so the buttons were down her back. She’d then wrap her arms around herself. This way, she could pretend he was hugging her.
With that story, my perspective began to shift. Perhaps there were countless ways to mourn and memorialize those we love, with no “right” or “wrong” actions. What if I wasn’t so hard on myself and instead allowed the mere existence of my dad’s voicemails to soothe me, the same way this stranger used her husband’s shirt to comfort her? What if I continued to look for a solution, but did so with grace instead of angst?
I slowly softened my stance. And as life would have it, soon after I was gentler on myself, I discovered how to make a digital recording of those voicemails. They now reside on my laptop.
Even with the passing of time, I’m not emotionally ready to listen to them. Yet, this experience did bring forth an enlightening new message that I replay daily in my mind: if I honor myself and my feelings—at all times and in all situations—I will find inner peace.
I can hear my dad’s response. “Great job, Lovie. I love you.”