Three months. Life.

It’s been a little over three months since my father passed. I asked Doyle today, on the way to the airport, if it’s weird that I just keep remembering Dad’s face right after he died, and playing the moment of his last breaths in my head over and over again. I remember the heat of the living room and the lack of weirdness in walking through the room with him lying in bed, waiting for the nurse to finish her work. It’s not something I dwell on, not really. But there’s these surprise random moments where memories of that day pop in and make me think; moments that give me clarity of emotion that surprises me. It surprises me because I have a thick wall of “coping” with things that happen. I can function, life does not impede me. Yet. Yet. I walk up to that moment in my mind and I can’t quite cross into it. The large of it all stops me.

I keep receiving letters from the TRU hospice care facility, the people that helped me take care of my dad. Most of the time, they are letters for grief counseling. Sometimes a random person has given a gift to them in his name. The latter is easier to read, of course. I tend to be dismissive of the former. I don’t need that. I am fine. See? I can function perfectly well, thank you very much. Life does not impede me.

But life is impeding me. No. Death is impeding me. Is this something I’m supposed to go through? Should I scamper up that dark wall and drop into the Mordor of feeling? Is it that I can’t face my own death? Is it that I just feel like it’s all futile anyway, I mean, why bother? Can’t I just make this grief time thing shorter so I can get on with things and forget the past? Can I be snarky and harsh and critical of me, of him, of life?

I find myself being overwhelmed more easily these days. Dealing with change in one’s life is one thing but dealing with change and with estate filings, that’s another. I find myself caring for my siblings more than I thought I would, but I don’t know why. Yes, I do. I think I’m responsible to make sure they have what Dad wanted them to have, as quickly and as easily as possible. I worry that something will go horribly wrong. What? I have no clue. Like, I’ll miss something important. I find myself dealing with twelve things at once, like life insurance, escrow, car titles, bank accounts, and dinner for Doyle and me. Grocery shopping and lawyer’s bills, electricity payments for two houses, and wondering if my actions will cause anyone else harm. Are my cat’s okay and did I pay Dad’s electrical bill? And traveling… traveling for my avocation, traveling for my vocation, and making sure that I am still unpacking boxes in my new house so I can finally live there.

Dad’s house is in escrow, the estate sale has come and gone. A roof will be put on soon, to replace some hail damage. The car has been paid off and is being sold and the garage is cleaned out. The remnants of a life have dispersed to the four winds of heaven. Memory is all I have. Sort of. Even that is a little shot these days.

It’s no wonder I’m crabby. I get it. I can intellectually see it’s a lot. But. Someone’s got to do it.

This too shall pass, and I tell myself that often. I tell myself that phrase when the world seems dull, that I miss humanity and can’t stand them. I tell myself to move on, when I feel lonely and living out of a suitcase. I play games on my iPad to pass the time and fret that I am not more productive. I wonder why that happens – making an impact on the world seems less shiny. Less pretty. Less useful. It’s easier to hide. It’s easier to be dull and move on with the day to day.

I ask myself often why am I here? Why are any of us here?

I have learned a lot about dying and death, and I hope to make mine a lot easier on whomever is around at the time I go. There’s so much you can’t conceive of, and the ones who have dealt with it before know what I mean. I know you’re out there, and yet, you all survived. Happily, it appears. Maybe that is the illusion. Maybe that is what we don’t talk about enough and should: surviving a loved one’s death. The world is just all weird. My apathy is growing at the same time my sense of self is shrinking. Why should the death of a parent, or anyone close to you, trigger this kind of backing up into the dank, garbage-filled alley of fear?

I don’t think it’s fear. Really. I think that there’s something that happens to you, over time, if you don’t walk through grief with people who are alive and in your life. There’s a kind of crystallization of feeling. Emotions feel disjointed, out of step with what you are living. You sense everything from a great distance and the closer you come to really feeling something, the less you remain…you. I’ve done some soul searching, some grief… a little bit. Not nearly enough, I think. In the honesty of the moment, I wonder if I am resentful of the fact that I would spend tears and time on someone who I’m not sure felt depth of feeling for me. For all his goodness, he didn’t really connect with me. It is interesting how much I found out about my father and his family after he passed. My grandfather on dad’s side was adopted, and his name was Lawrence Comfort. He was adopted by the Bakers, so they of course changed my grandfather’s last name. Huh. Found my father’s first divorce papers, including the name of the woman. Elizabeth. He buried them in his military records, reminders of his time in the Service that went wrong. Did you know that some insurance companies what you to put all marriages someone has? I didn’t. Good to know but certainly something for shaking out the skeletons in closets. Dad never shared. He never talked. Even in those last weeks, when I was desperate to be there for him, sitting by his bedside. He never really spoke. Not about what mattered.

There is resentment, I can feel it, and part of me feels ashamed of it. Ashamed that I should feel resentful of a man who took care of me when I was a child. I wonder if being adopted makes it different? Who knows?

I think, more than anything in these last few months, I’ve learned to say “thank you” to people who say I’m sorry for your loss. Part of me thinks they don’t really mean it and, when it comes down to it, maybe neither do I. I don’t like being the object of someone else’s pity/grief/sad feelings. It makes me uncomfortable. Like I don’t deserve it. I say thank you so I can quickly move on to the business at hand, whatever it may be. I don’t want kindness. I don’t want empathy. I’m not sure what I want. I do know all that empathy/sympathy/grief makes it hard to create the shell that allows you to deal with day to day things. It’s as if saying “I’m sorry” tries to poke holes in its fragile membrane. I want to scream, Leave me alone! I don’t let many people in – that’s very controlled. If you think you know me, you should know you only have one face of me. The rest are tightly sealed up in a box, in the back of a closet, where only one or two have the key. You know who you are, I hope.

What have these three months taught me? Life. They have taught me life and death and life, which is all just life. It’s all a cycle, over and over, until we get off the Ferris Wheel of human karmic debt and experience. Don’t worry about me. I will be like the all-the-rest-of-us who lose a loved one and have to still keep breathing in this sublunary abode. We all do this. My journey might be mine, and unique, but it’s a journey each of us has or will take.

This piece of writing has taught me that I am a mirror of my father: closed up, walled off, coping with the day to day so I don’t have to share the humanity of it all. He closed off, I felt resentful because I wanted the Truth of him. It can only teach me that I shouldn’t wall off me, because there might be you who feels resentful of me for not sharing. God forbid. I’m human. Go figure.

I’m sorry if this was a raw moment for you. It certainly is for me, if necessary. I wanted to share what I was feeling and thinking with those of you who came on the journey with me and my dad. Writing is the best way I know how to deal with this and will probably do this every so often, to let you know what’s come up. I hope you don’t mind me sharing. I think perhaps more of us should do that, so that more of us can get on with it. With Life. With living. I may not say it nearly enough – thank you. And I love you in my own silent way. Maybe that is the key to all this: take away the shields and be myself, and not the silent, unyielding voice of my father.

6 thoughts on “Three months. Life.

  1. curious3d says:

    This lands close to home, and puts words on a lot of what I felt—or tried not to feel—when my own Dad passed. I’m glad you’re writing. Sending love.

  2. Kelly Quinn says:

    I hear you my friend. I had/have similar expieriences with my dad and his passing. He had such a deep dark closet full of skelletons he refused to let out. I tried to help him, but there were far too many deadbolts on that door. So sad someone held on to so much anger for so long. I think it prevented his own happiness. I heard from a few of his friends after the funeral, how much I meant to him. Would have been nice to hear it from the horses mouth, but, that is who he was. I love you and I miss you my friend. I love to read your musings. Know that you are not alone in this F@cked up world. I am glad your path walked past mine, albeit for a short bit. Glad to hear the house is done and you are moving in/on. Much Love to you all. ❤️K❤️

    • Kristine Wilson-Slack says:

      Kelly bear! I hope to see you in a few weeks. Even if I just drop in. I’m going to finally come back to work in Sunnyvale for a week, so I might actually GET to see some people. Hugs and love to you friend. The time we’ve walked together is not ending – just a little farther apart. I’m still with you.

  3. Christine says:

    Love you. I am familiar with the dark places. Never fear that I should fear seeing them in you.

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