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k2daisyI need a place to talk in long form right now, so I am back to journaling.
My dad's birthday is today. He was supposed to turn 80 today, a milestone birthday that none of my blood relatives have ever reached. Dad died November 14th. He should have fucking lived. He should be fucking 80 years old today.
I sound mad, with all the swearing, but I am mostly still horribly sad and crushed. I realize belatedly that I didn't get any time to mourn my dad -- just my dad -- because four days after he died my mom got an untreatable metastasized liver cancer diagnosis, and six weeks later she died too. She was 78, so still had a year and a half before she was supposed to reach the 80-yr milestone. In less than two months I went from a person who was changing her life to care for her parents as they aged (we were all determined to get them over the 80-yr threshold) to a fucking orphan now raising her dead parents' dog.
Anyways. My dad. I miss him so much. I miss his whole-body hugs and his big smooches, and the way his hair would look crazy when he woke up from a nap. I miss his sly jokes and half-smiles, the way he would roll his eyes at my mom when she asked him for some crazy thing before he did what she asked, the way he would pester me to take my Lexulous turn. I miss floating around in the pool with him, listening to him tell me about his neighbors and the goings-on in his community. I miss watching him take care of the house, do the dishes after dinner, make himself a bowl of ice cream with extra whipped cream when he watched TV at night. When I was a kid, it was slices of bologna and cheese rolled up on a plate. Or chocolate-covered graham crackers that he hid from us on the top shelf of the cabinet; he was tall, he could reach it when we couldn't. He still hid them up there until a few years ago.
I even miss him yelling at me; he had such a temper that he never learned to control. But he did learn to apologize when he calmed down again. I was there in October to drive them home after a hurricane evacuation; it was the last time the three of us were together like "normal". Dad blew up at me and Mom after we were home, and it surprised us both a little while later when he genuinely was remorseful, and said so. I wish he had had that ability at the end, but a subdural hematoma pressing hard on his brain made that impossible. It was really hard when he died, because the brain bleed took away his filter and his true self. He was upset and angry, and it all got directed at me. My mom and sisters were spared his wrath, but now all of my memories around his death include me being so upset that he was so upset with me. Like there was nothing I could do to please him, and I wanted to so badly. I know that wasn't him. but in the moment I didn't; we didn't even know he had a brain bleed until he was in the hospital for 3 days. Thankfully, he did have a few moments of lucidity near the end. He gave me a smooch, teased me about playing Lexulous, and my sister brought him some ice cream that he inhaled so excitedly. I hold onto those memories when the harder ones threaten to swamp me.
My mom and I were the ones who stayed in the ICU room with him overnight after they started comfort measures. We were sleeping in the chairs by him when he passed. I had checked on him maybe a half-hour before. They say that people often wait until the family leaves to pass away, but my mom hung on until Kate and I raced back to her room from the car, so I don't know if it's true. I feel guilty about not being awake with him as he took his last breaths. We were there but he was alone. I hate that for him.
And now I am the only one who was there when both of my parents died. Kate and Ali were home, exhaustedly sleeping for a few hours, for Dad. Kate wanted to stay in the ICU but Mom insisted she go home because she was so worn out. For Mom, Kate and I stayed in her hospice room that final night with my cousins, and they sent us home to shower and eat in the early morning. We were on our way back when my cousin called to say hurry up, she was close. We got there and she passed while we held her hands about 10 minutes later.
Anyway. This is how my brain works these days. I careen from petting Molly, to thinking about my Dad making jokes about how she liked to watch golf and baseball, to crying because I wanted him to see her up here in her new home, to crying even harder as I re-live their deaths.
I can't really mourn one without the other. But they deserve to be. I miss them both differently. My dad's death feels sharper; my tears always run hot when I cry for him. Mom's feels calmer, like a tide slowly coming in. My tears for her are usually just constant leaking and rolling down my face.
They should not be gone this soon. Dad should be turning 80 today.
My dad's birthday is today. He was supposed to turn 80 today, a milestone birthday that none of my blood relatives have ever reached. Dad died November 14th. He should have fucking lived. He should be fucking 80 years old today.
I sound mad, with all the swearing, but I am mostly still horribly sad and crushed. I realize belatedly that I didn't get any time to mourn my dad -- just my dad -- because four days after he died my mom got an untreatable metastasized liver cancer diagnosis, and six weeks later she died too. She was 78, so still had a year and a half before she was supposed to reach the 80-yr milestone. In less than two months I went from a person who was changing her life to care for her parents as they aged (we were all determined to get them over the 80-yr threshold) to a fucking orphan now raising her dead parents' dog.
Anyways. My dad. I miss him so much. I miss his whole-body hugs and his big smooches, and the way his hair would look crazy when he woke up from a nap. I miss his sly jokes and half-smiles, the way he would roll his eyes at my mom when she asked him for some crazy thing before he did what she asked, the way he would pester me to take my Lexulous turn. I miss floating around in the pool with him, listening to him tell me about his neighbors and the goings-on in his community. I miss watching him take care of the house, do the dishes after dinner, make himself a bowl of ice cream with extra whipped cream when he watched TV at night. When I was a kid, it was slices of bologna and cheese rolled up on a plate. Or chocolate-covered graham crackers that he hid from us on the top shelf of the cabinet; he was tall, he could reach it when we couldn't. He still hid them up there until a few years ago.
I even miss him yelling at me; he had such a temper that he never learned to control. But he did learn to apologize when he calmed down again. I was there in October to drive them home after a hurricane evacuation; it was the last time the three of us were together like "normal". Dad blew up at me and Mom after we were home, and it surprised us both a little while later when he genuinely was remorseful, and said so. I wish he had had that ability at the end, but a subdural hematoma pressing hard on his brain made that impossible. It was really hard when he died, because the brain bleed took away his filter and his true self. He was upset and angry, and it all got directed at me. My mom and sisters were spared his wrath, but now all of my memories around his death include me being so upset that he was so upset with me. Like there was nothing I could do to please him, and I wanted to so badly. I know that wasn't him. but in the moment I didn't; we didn't even know he had a brain bleed until he was in the hospital for 3 days. Thankfully, he did have a few moments of lucidity near the end. He gave me a smooch, teased me about playing Lexulous, and my sister brought him some ice cream that he inhaled so excitedly. I hold onto those memories when the harder ones threaten to swamp me.
My mom and I were the ones who stayed in the ICU room with him overnight after they started comfort measures. We were sleeping in the chairs by him when he passed. I had checked on him maybe a half-hour before. They say that people often wait until the family leaves to pass away, but my mom hung on until Kate and I raced back to her room from the car, so I don't know if it's true. I feel guilty about not being awake with him as he took his last breaths. We were there but he was alone. I hate that for him.
And now I am the only one who was there when both of my parents died. Kate and Ali were home, exhaustedly sleeping for a few hours, for Dad. Kate wanted to stay in the ICU but Mom insisted she go home because she was so worn out. For Mom, Kate and I stayed in her hospice room that final night with my cousins, and they sent us home to shower and eat in the early morning. We were on our way back when my cousin called to say hurry up, she was close. We got there and she passed while we held her hands about 10 minutes later.
Anyway. This is how my brain works these days. I careen from petting Molly, to thinking about my Dad making jokes about how she liked to watch golf and baseball, to crying because I wanted him to see her up here in her new home, to crying even harder as I re-live their deaths.
I can't really mourn one without the other. But they deserve to be. I miss them both differently. My dad's death feels sharper; my tears always run hot when I cry for him. Mom's feels calmer, like a tide slowly coming in. My tears for her are usually just constant leaking and rolling down my face.
They should not be gone this soon. Dad should be turning 80 today.