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.