Gradient

My dad was an old school graphic designer. He started his own business in the 80s after retiring from the fire department, and spent the rest of his life designing logos, computer manuals, and how-to booklets. He loved drop shadows, outdated design software, and desktop computers. But more than anything, he loved gradients. A working artist most of his life, he was still designing things – albeit slowly – up until he was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 74. He was also a great teacher.

When my brother lost his job at Costco and was struggling to find direction, my dad took him under his wing, transforming him into a talented designer to work alongside him. We always joked about my dad’s business name – Heideman Associates – because it was just my dad by himself for so long. Once my brother joined and there were two Heidemans, it made sense.

My dad taught me a lot about becoming a designer, too. When I graduated from college, he built me a computer from scratch so I could start freelancing. He’d give me little projects here and there and teach me his tricks of the trade.

Sometimes we’d share our work with one another and ask for feedback. I remember once, as I leaned over him in his squeaky office chair, peering at the dusty screen of his behemoth desktop, a cigarette smoldering nearby, I spied a logo he’d designed for a local wine shop. It was simple, as was his style, but looked outdated with the obtrusive gradient going from white to gray in the background. “Dad, you gotta ease up on the gradients,” I told him. “They’re so 1990.” He laughed. “Never.”

After my dad was gone, the reminders of him were everywhere. I remember walking through our neighborhood with my six-year-old daughter, Remy, a budding artist herself, just a couple of months after my dad’s death. The air was crisp and the leaves were just beginning to change, signaling the start of fall and the end of a summer spent in doctor’s offices and hospice meetings. Remy ran ahead in the white Pumas she’d just learned to tie, then stopped suddenly on the sidewalk.

I watched as she peered down at the ground, then bend over to pick something up. Running over to me, she held out her little hand and squealed, “Mom, look! This leaf has a gradient!”

She held the leaf up against the bright sky for me to see. Tears stung the corners of my eyes as I paused to admire the leaf. It did, indeed, have a gradient. A beautiful one – starting with a fiery red near the stem, morphing upward into a deep, sunrise orange and finishing with a brown-flecked mustard yellow at the tip.

How does a six-year-old even know what a gradient is? That’s probably what my dad would have asked. I immediately wanted to call him, then remembered that no one would be there to pick up.

Realizations like these are excruciating. It’s like someone punches you in the face and reminds you that you don’t have the luxury of calling the one person who would understand and find joy in these types of moments. In losing someone you love, you lose the ability to have a conversation with them. Even a mundane one.

Abruptly and unceremoniously, there are no more phone calls about the weather or how your garden is doing, no more texts saying, “happy hump day!” or “have you changed your oil lately?”

There are also no more voicemails. Man, I wish I had some voicemails. I would usually call my dad while I was alone in the car, because it was one of the few moments in my day where I wasn’t distracted by kids or work or the to-dos waiting for me at home. It used to drive my dad nuts when he had to compete with the sound of clanking dishes or groceries being unloaded. He always demanded my undivided attention.

We’d chat about the weather, of course, and our respective gardens. He was an avid gardener too, another trait passed down. “Are you talking to your tomatoes?” he’d say. “Make sure they know they’re appreciated, and don’t overwater them.”

He’d also ask what kinds of design projects I was working on and tell me how proud of me he was. I had become a self-employed designer just like him, although I use a laptop and like to keep my software up to date.

Once he got sick, our conversations turned to scans, appointment updates, and whether he was drinking enough water.

When my daughter showed me the leaf that day, I could only imagine the conversation my dad and I would have had. He would have been so impressed with Remy for her astute observation (as he would have called it), and we would have shared a good-natured laugh about having another gradient lover in the family.

There are several definitions for gradient - an upward or downward slope; a curve representing rate of change; and in the art world, a smooth, gradual transition from one color to another.

Life after death is like this. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m on the upward or downward slope of the grieving process, but without even knowing it I’m constantly sliding ever-so-smoothly between sadness and joy, and all the emotions in between. There are dark moments and light moments, moments of happiness and moments of utter despair. The joy and the sadness undulate around me, existing in complete harmony with one another, no matter how hard I try to compartmentalize my emotions and make them pick a side already.

My therapist warned me about the wild ride of emotions I would likely embark on once my dad was gone. She showed me a chart of the various stages of grief, but it didn’t move in a linear fashion. It was a mess of chaotic arrows and scribbles linking anger to hope and guilt to happiness. She told me I might feel depressed one day and optimistic the next, then a week later plummet back into shock and denial.

And it was true. One minute I was laughing and running outside with my daughter, and the next I was crying over a leaf.

And maybe this is just how it will be for a while. I’ll continue to feel that terrible pang when I reach for my phone and then stop, remembering that the “Dad” still listed in my phone favorites isn’t ever going to answer. I’ll continue to laugh with my kids. I’ll go to work, I’ll make dinner. Remy will grow. She’ll draw pictures my dad will never see. Things that remind me of my dad – like gradients – will pop up and I’ll want to pick up my phone all over again.

And in the spring, I’ll plant a new garden, even without my dad to talk to about proper tomato care. Turns out tomatoes, when they’re ripening, have a gradient too.