I’ve lost count of the days, and I think that’s healthy so I’m going to go with it and not start counting.
Since my last post, the office at my complex has issued an email apologizing for the first email as well as a real-mail letter addressing my complaints in exactly the order I made them. I am somewhat satisfied by this response because it shows that the woman who wrote the original email actually did something with the notes she took during my rant, and also that my decision not to renew the lease with them was not as inconsequential as the property manager led me to believe by going about her business and not coming to talk to me herself. I still have no idea what March will bring, but I’ve decided not to think about it too much before January. I get anxious about these things, but nobody wants to talk to you about housing three months in advance, so I’m trying to chill out.
Aside from that, it’s the same ol’, same ol’. I gave blood this weekend which I try to do whenever I’m eligible because it makes me feel connected in the way I think some people feel when they go to church. Sitting in a chair with a needle in your arm forces you to slow down for a few minutes and think, usually about why you’re doing this and coming to the inevitable conclusion that the only reason to really give blood is that you really love the world, and you love other people, and you don’t have to have met them to love them. These are the thoughts I always have as I watch the bag fill up, but this time I found myself thinking about the families as well as the patients. I didn’t originally associate this line of thinking with what happened to my dad; I was just thinking about how many lives it changes when someone comes out of the hospital healthy. And then I thought about someone who didn’t come out of the hospital healthy, and I cried for the first time in longer than you would probably think.
Here is something that has surprised me about my grieving process: it has been more physical than emotional. I’m never sure if I’m starving or stuffed, I don’t sleep well, and I can’t focus. I have not been overly emotional, which has me thinking that I am either way ahead of the curve or more likely, way behind. At some point it has to catch up with me, right?
Something you always hear about grief is that you should expect to be unstable and break down completely unexpectedly. I always assumed this would mean that I’d be talking to a coworker and have a memory of my dad and lose it, but that’s not how it’s been. In talking to other people, sometimes I even appreciate the excuse to keep it together. The stuff that does get me is mostly the superficial things, which makes me feel kind of selfish and dumb.
Sometimes I talk about the last conversation I had with my dad being hurried and tense, but the second to last conversation I had with him was actually so long and meaningful that I forgot to ask him the question that prompted me to call in the first place, and these days I get irritated that I can’t ask. I worry about what I’ll do if something happens to Sophie or Picasso, since Dad was the only on-call veterinarian I ever needed. I had a mini-meltdown in the grocery store the other day after my heart raced at the sight of a non-alcoholic beer I’d never seen anywhere else, and I was punched in the gut with the realization that I had no one to buy it for. I always tried to surprise Dad with new NAs when he came to visit.
I’ve been thinking lately that the bulk of my reactions can be reduced to being angry at the me who thought a future was promised. And Dad, too. I am mad at myself for not appreciating things more. Although I’m glad we had that weekend, I’m mad at myself for not protesting the outlandish gesture of driving my truck here from Michigan just so I could have a car for the three weeks before he and Mom made another trip. I’m mad when I read the notecard that has been on my refrigerator since the last time he came here, the one that talks about next time. I’m mad thinking about all the fights we had over who I dated and how when we resolved it, he told me that when he walked me down the aisle, he was going to cry like a baby no matter who he delivered me to. I’m mad at us, that we assumed that that was guaranteed.
I think I will be a more thankful person for this experience.