The Dress that was Armor

“That’s my favorite dress of yours, Katie. You look so pretty,” my dad said as he smiled down at me. He ruffled my hair, and I did a little twirl in my brand-new jean dress. He made me feel pretty, and special. My mother bought me this blue jean dress; the dress was long and had silver buttons that went all the way down the front. I loved it, it made me feel so grown up. My father loved it, and that made it even more special.

When I was twelve, I stared at that jean dress in my closet, along with a few other dresses. All the other dresses were black, because you always wear black to a funeral. I cannot recall exactly who told me this, as I had never been to a funeral before. I don’t know how at twelve years old I knew that black was the proper attire for funerals, but I knew it. I didn’t want to go, but who wants to go to a funeral?

My mom walked by and saw I wasn’t ready, “Katie, we are leaving for the wake in twenty minutes, so get dressed,” she told me as she hurried to check on my brothers.

“Ok, ok,” I told her, as she walked away, and I reached for one of the interchangeable black dresses. They were simple dresses, the dresses of a child. I looked at the black dress for a while and then threw it on my bed.

I reached for my jean dress. I pulled it on and buttoned the buttons one by one. Then I left my room and went with my mother and two brothers to my father’s wake. I wore that dress because it was my father’s favorite. It was my favorite too, but after that day, I never wore it again.

•

When I was ten my father was diagnosed with ALS, but the doctors weren't sure. Diagnoses can be difficult, but as a kid I decided that he didn't have this terrible disease. Since the doctors weren't sure, that meant they were wrong. This game of pretend only lasted for two years. The doctors were not wrong. When I was twelve my dad lost his fight with ALS, and he was gone. I had never really believed that something like this could happen to me. I truly believed everything would be ok. You know, in that way only a child can believe things will be ok?

I remember that time in bits and pieces. The fateful phone call that ended my childhood. The look on my mother’s face when she came home from the hospital. The dairy queen next to the funeral home. The girl who got my brother food because he wasn’t allowed to leave the wake. The drive to the cemetery. The red rose that I put on his grave. The way my father looked in his casket, him but not him. A husk of the vibrant man I had known. The sinking feeling that I was utterly and suddenly alone, standing in a crowded room and feeling like I was a wraith that no one else could see.

But I do remember that dress. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. A long jean dress with buttons all the way down the front. A dress that made my father smile, I knew he would have wanted me to wear it. I didn’t understand it at the time, but that dress was like armor. Something I donned to have a little control in my life when I felt like I had none. A shining shield to protect me from a world that was suddenly hostile.