Three Weeks

I wrote the below on Friday, but technical difficulties prevented my posting until today. 

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As anyone who has lost someone very close to them knows, the immediate aftermath tends to be somewhat surreal. I don’t know for a fact that an unexpected death makes this even more the case, but I have to imagine it does, to some extent (not worse, mind you, but surreal). You’re surrounded by people, a lot of the time. And there’s the planning. You have something to focus on, and while that something is concrete, it seems rather unreal.

And then things slow down, and for everyone around you, life returns to normal. Only, there you are, in this new normal - a normal you want absolutely no part of, but which you cannot escape.

And you feel torn. Part of you just wants to get through to the point when the new normal will actually feel somewhat normal; the other part of you wants to hold onto the fresh grief you’re experiencing because letting it go indicates a distance from this person you love that you cannot even stand to imagine.

Your emotions are so raw. Maybe an iPhone ad in which a small child talks to his grandparents on FaceTime will cause you to dissolve into snotty, incoherent tears. Maybe a routine telemarketing call to your parents’ house by someone asking for your father will launch you into such a state of rage that you’ll want to reach through the phone and throttle an unknowing stranger. Maybe your brothers’ remembrances of your father will make you laugh until your abs are literally mildly sore the next day (which is probably compounded by your lack of working out at the moment…but that’s a story for another day).

I’m staying with my Mom right now. This house is so full of my Dad. There are little things he left around, because he was only going to be away a couple of weeks. There are tools. There is his shed. There are the birdfeeders (OH MY GOD, THE BIRDFEEDERS, what was he, starting a sanctuary in the backyard?!) that need to be filled, like, ALL THE DAMN TIME. There is his library of every James Patterson novel ever published. And that dude is PROLIFIC. There is the Bremner Wafers tin. These are just a few inconsequential examples.

I miss him so much that I literally ache. I have no idea how to exist in a world where he isn’t here. I have no idea who to call now when I need career advice (which I will again eventually). When I need a Santa-vention for a misbehaving child. When I just need to hear my Daddy’s voice.

When I was in my teens and my thyroid disease was not yet diagnosed, it behaved a lot like depression. I remember one day, I just COULD NOT stop crying. For no apparent reason. If you’ve ever been pregnant, you totally know what I’m talking about, since it's a similar phenomenon. I don’t remember where my Mom was, but my Dad was home with me and my two younger brothers. And he didn’t get exasperated or angry. He hugged me to him like I was a little girl instead of a 15 year old, and he said, “Sometimes, you just feel sad, huh?” And he held me that way until I felt better. I didn’t include this anecdote in my eulogy, because I’d never have gotten through it.

Dammit, I just miss him. Every second.

Ramblings...

I can't seem to stop reliving it, in the quiet moments. The times when I can't fall to sleep, or fall back to sleep. The times when I'm driving. Or just when my mind isn't otherwise occupied. That's when it comes back. That second when my world crumbled around me. Does that sound dramatic? It's the truth. The words my poor husband had to speak haunt me. And I feel the panic rising in my chest all over again. I want so badly to be able to go back to life before that moment. But of course, there is no going back.

Then there are other times when I feel like I'm going to be ok. I feel like my amazing Dad (and of course my amazing Mom) prepared me to take the hits life hands out and even though this sucks harder than I could've imagined, I'll be ok. I'll miss him. Of course I will. Every day. But I can do it.

In the almost two weeks since he died, so many people have told me how wonderful, great, amazing my Dad was. But of course, I already knew. The things they're telling me are true. He wasn't perfect, of course, but he was a remarkable human being. He was kind, loving, honest, brilliant, hilarious, cantankerous, crotchety...did I mention hilarious?

There are a million and a half things I already miss about him. I miss his hugs. I miss his Dad smell. I miss his voice. I miss him calling me Das. I miss his laugh. I miss the way he clapped when he thought something was REALLY funny. I miss the way he could change my son's mood in a split second. I miss the way he looked at my Mom as if he'd never seen anything so beautiful, even after almost 48 years as a couple. I miss his ability to listen and give absolutely spot-on advice. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I hate this. I hate it. I know it's part of life. I know how absolutely crazily blessed I was to have this amazing man as a Dad for 37 years. But I hate it.

Dad

At around 4:30 in the morning on Saturday, August 3rd, one of my very worst nightmares came true. My parents had left on Friday for a European vacation with my oldest brother and his family. I woke up at 4:30 to my husband on the phone with my brother in law. Immediately, I knew something was gravely, gravely wrong. For a split second, I thought the plane had crashed. But then something told me that wasn't it. Something in me told me it was my father. Sure enough, E got off the phone and took my hand. I was already hyperventilating as he told me, "Something happened to your Dad on the plane, and he passed away." I went into a full blown panic attack, pretty much immediately. E went and got my panic meds, and then I just sobbed for a long, long time.

The rest of that day is a blur. My mother and oldest brother, along with his wife and two children, were stuck in Ireland, where their plane had been diverted, until all the "paperwork" associated with someone dying on a plane could be completed. Here's what I remember. I know I packed up some stuff for myself and the kids, and we went to my sister's house. I know the two brothers who weren't in Ireland and their families came over, as did my cousins and uncles and aunt. Later in the day, my best friend came over. I know I cried. A lot. I know I felt something beyond shock. I know I texted a lot of people. I know that, at some point, it started to hit home. My Dad wasn't coming home.

It still seems pretty surreal. I go back and forth between feeling relatively ok, and missing him so much I can't breathe. I suppose that's pretty standard.

This deserves a much, much longer post. But I'm just not there yet. I'm just not. Even the words for the eulogy I'm trying to write are not coming easily. I just miss him so, so much.

To top it all off, today is my Mom's 68th birthday. We did our best by her. Hopefully, it wasn't too awfully miserable, although it was a world away (literally and figuratively) from the birthday she and my Dad had planned.