I don’t know if it’s symptomatic of the godless mid-twenties, but I am looking for meaning in everything. Some sort of sign that there’s something to believe in, some order to all of this. The other night, my aunt drew me a perfect bath and I sat in it, crying, eventually to realize that wax was dripping from a candle toward my shoulder. Was my dad in that candle, trying to reach out to me? Or maybe the wax was running toward me because bathtubs are designed to keep liquid inside them, and I am hurting too much to be a reasonable human being. They make me feel weak, these thoughts, and I am starving for resolutions.
The night before I flew home, I kept envisioning a coin falling. At the time, nobody knew what was going on or if my dad would live or die. And in a way it was like Schroedinger’s cat—he was both living and dead, and I was living out both futures. The romantic one. The horrible one. That was when the box was closed.
And now it’s open and everything is reaction. I have a very strong need to lead people in situations like this, but unfortunately that’s hereditary and there are currently way too many cooks in the kitchen. Everyone talking too fast and over everyone else, and being prone to anxiety it is much, much more chaotic than I generally allow my life to be. More and more I’m finding myself needing to detach completely, and I think that’s ok and working for now.
I feel good about my past with my dad, which is the first gift. We had our fair share of fights, but it was always because we were too damned similar—almost never because we didn’t understand each other. Would I have done things differently if I knew how little time I would have with him? Sure, but not that many things. I told him I loved him all the time. He knew. Our last interaction wasn’t the best but currently that doesn’t bother me. He didn’t have time for me (which was rare), and in an odd sort of way it comforts me to know that if he really thought he was going to die, he would have treated that call differently. So overall, I don’t expect the past to haunt me terribly.
(So far at least) I feel ok about the future, too. I’m tough and I have a great family. This doesn’t have to ruin everything, even when it seems that way. Pete and I are almost adults, and we both got full, happy childhood experiences with our dad. A lot of people got to know and love my dad, and my kids will know him as the legend he already is. It’s not like I get a choice about this, but I am not currently feeling (as I somewhat expected to) like a life without my dad is a life not worth living. That is the second gift.
Right now though, it’s the present that sucks to think about and live in, the still living in the moment when my dad was living too. Maybe the funeral will help with this process, but there is no clear delineation for me between the time when Dad was around and the time when he wasn’t. The conjured hope for his recovery hasn’t begun to bleed out, and in every arrangement, every decision that validates the fact that he’s dead, I feel like saying, “no, fuck this.” And sometimes I do and then people have to apologize on my behalf (...but really, taking a limo to the funeral? is this prom? do we look like the kind of people who are interested in renting a limo? i hope we’ll get some champagne with that, and maybe a couple noisemakers. get the fuck out of my face with these questions). At this moment, now is the part that sucks, the part i’m worried about. I can’t believe that I’m saying this, but I guess it could be worse.
I’m going to try to write about this process because I think it helps, and it’s only a bonus if people happen to read it and understand a little more intimately why i spend so much time staring out car windows, not talking.
Hi Mary, I work with your mom in the homeless department. Just wanted to tell you that I am still in shock about your dad. I am lucky to know Shirley, she is the best listener and I often tell her my Claudia (my daughter) stories. It was evident from first meeting your mom four years ago that she had something with your dad that is what most can only hope for. So much of what you share hits home, the limo ride when my dad died seemed so surreal. But I digress~please tell your mom that my Claudia is so sad for her and busted out in tears about “Shirley’s husband.” She never met your dad, but she knows your mom. I will see you all soon, give your mom a hug. I must say when my brother died I found it so odd that people who knew me fairly well never said anything at all to me. So while I have never met you or Pete and never had the honor of meeting your dad, I am so sorry for your loss.
Trish O’Connor….sans spell check:-)
— Trish O'Connor Nov 14, 12:53 PM [link]