(song: I Grieve/artist: Peter Gabriel)
My therapist told me to write. Doctor’s orders.
My dad died.
Every time I write it or say it, it still feels
like the first time.
My dad died.
My dad is dead.
My dad was old.
He was one of those “he had a full life”
cases.
He was 86.
My dad died when he was 86.
My dad started 24-hour oxygen in
June of 2015. I spent the last 8 months traveling back-and-forth from NY to GA to spend as much time with him as I could, except January
when I was under strict orders not to travel after my back surgery. I called my
dad the morning of my surgery and demanded he stay alive until I could fly
again. We laughed but we knew that neither of us got that choice so we said
goodbye every time we talked.
I was lucky because I knew he was dying. I knew that every conversation I had with my dad was one chat closer
to the last. I audio-recorded our conversations and made short videos
of him telling stories and jokes. I wrote parts of his eulogy while he was still alive so that I could share my memories with him. I knew the end was coming and I
know how lucky I am to have been able to say goodbye over the course of 9
months. I mistakenly believed that this gift of time and knowledge would make
things easier when I became a member of the Dead Parent Club.
But, no. It still came as a shocking blow to get that call
on May 12th. I had been willfully ignoring
the impact that the end-of-life experience with my dad would have, and how abrupt the end would feel even though we knew it was coming. In some ways, the past 9 months with my dad was
more meaningful than the collective 41 years I had with him. In every way, right now.
I feel broken. I look normal on the outside but I am hollow
on the inside. I'm so angry. I want to go for a run, but I can't. I still can't fucking run! Even if I could run, I feel painfully awkward when I'm outside of my home. I feel so different right now. I have all the textbook grieving stuff going on – intermittent
waves of sobbing (occasionally in public), constant fatigue but inability to
stay asleep, forgetfulness, guilt, self-loathing, weight gain, anger…lots and lots of anger. In short, I'm a mess.
I just want to hide. And that's exactly what I'm going to do when I go back to Georgia for summer vacation. The last trip of the year. Time to unplug and take care of me.
Have a great summer, y'all. See you in September.
Let the healing begin.
Have a great summer, y'all. See you in September.
Let the healing begin.