I'm starting the long journey of resetting my expectations, of reorienting my reference points for my life and the way that I perceive the world. That's a fancy way of saying that I'm trying to figure out how to live my life in this brave, new world.
Part of that is coming to grips with the truth that, for a while, I am not going to be acting like myself. I feel like grief is this horrible phase I am forced to go through, when I'm not even sure how I will react to things. In some ways, I'm stronger than I ever imagined: I stood over my dad's deathbed, held his hand, and promised I'd make him proud. I wrote his obituary. I stood for four hours and shook hands with and hugged hundreds of well-wishers at the visitation. (I cried a lot, but not the whole time.) I felt an incredible and God-given peace while at the cemetery.
In other ways, I'm weaker than I was before. I'm not talking about succumbing to tears or feeling heartbroken. That is not weakness. That is how you know that the love you felt was profound. I'm talking about moments when I'm suddenly caught off guard with unconnected emotions. One example: last night, I went to Chipotle to order food for my mom and myself. Since I was ordering more than one thing, I had to multi-task to make sure each item had the right toppings, and at the same time tell the cashier what I was ordering. And suddenly, I felt so overwhelmed. I got flustered, my throat went dry, and my hands started shaking. The poor girl behind the counter told me to take my time, I was so visibly upset by trying to make sure everything was right.
I finally paid and walked back to my car, and I couldn't understand why in the world I'd gotten so upset about ordering a couple of burritos. I'd never before experienced that feeling of drowning right where I stood, as if suddenly everything was strange and off-kilter and upsetting. It was weird.
But I know that I'm not crazy. I haven't suddenly developed schizophrenia, or something. I just have a huge pain in my heart, a pain that is so fundamental that it affects everything I do. The shock of this past week's events have shaken me up so badly that ordering two things at once at Chipotle was somehow too much for me to handle. I know that things will get better. And that it's okay for me to experience moments like this. I just have to learn to work around them.
I hope all that doesn't sound too melodramatic.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
"The act of living is different all through. Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything."
--C.S. Lewis
I don't know where to begin.
My whole life has changed. Everything is different now. Every relationship, every interaction, every minute of everyday will be altered by the knowledge that my dad is gone. Every book I read and every movie I watch and every song I hear will be colored slightly differently because of that truth. It's as if there is a massive stone block set down inside my heart with the words MY DAD IS DEAD chiseled into the side. It's cold and heavy and rough on the edges. The words echo around my chest and repeat endlessly in my brain: dead dead dead dead dead. Every thought, every feeling I have brushes up against that cold, rough stone before coming out of me.
In the past few days I have become an expert at putting off thoughts, at setting them aside to be considered later when I can handle it. Thoughts like, Dad will not be at my someday wedding. The man I someday marry will never have met my dad, the most important person in my life. Dad will never know my someday kids. He won't be there to be proud of me if I get through graduate school, or proud of me anyways if I don't. An endless string of Christmases and Thanksgivings without him.
Then there are the thoughts I can't escape, but wish I could: I never got to say goodbye. All I could think about Monday night was what I wanted to say to him the next morning at the hospital. I wanted to take his face in my hands, look into his eyes, and tell him, "I will love you forever." He would look at me, maybe unable to speak, but we would both know he understood me. It's remarkable how simple things are when death is so close--now I have a million things I would like to say to my dad, thanks and questions and jokes and promises--but all I wanted to say, all there really was to say, is "I love you." I just wanted him to hear me tell him, one last time, and maybe he would be able to hear all that extra stuff in my voice.
But I never got the chance, he was too far gone.
And I know that he loved me, and I know he knew that we all loved him right back. Yet that doesn't take away the hurt and the loss of not being able to tell him at the last.
I find myself thinking about small, insignificant things, like the socks he wore, the color of his wallet. The way that his wedding ring had created two huge calluses on his finger over the years. The smell of his clothes. The clinking sound I'd hear from down the hall when he put his car keys and change on his dresser. How he would clean his glasses with a paper towel at the kitchen sink. How safe I felt when he hugged me.
--C.S. Lewis
I don't know where to begin.
My whole life has changed. Everything is different now. Every relationship, every interaction, every minute of everyday will be altered by the knowledge that my dad is gone. Every book I read and every movie I watch and every song I hear will be colored slightly differently because of that truth. It's as if there is a massive stone block set down inside my heart with the words MY DAD IS DEAD chiseled into the side. It's cold and heavy and rough on the edges. The words echo around my chest and repeat endlessly in my brain: dead dead dead dead dead. Every thought, every feeling I have brushes up against that cold, rough stone before coming out of me.
In the past few days I have become an expert at putting off thoughts, at setting them aside to be considered later when I can handle it. Thoughts like, Dad will not be at my someday wedding. The man I someday marry will never have met my dad, the most important person in my life. Dad will never know my someday kids. He won't be there to be proud of me if I get through graduate school, or proud of me anyways if I don't. An endless string of Christmases and Thanksgivings without him.
Then there are the thoughts I can't escape, but wish I could: I never got to say goodbye. All I could think about Monday night was what I wanted to say to him the next morning at the hospital. I wanted to take his face in my hands, look into his eyes, and tell him, "I will love you forever." He would look at me, maybe unable to speak, but we would both know he understood me. It's remarkable how simple things are when death is so close--now I have a million things I would like to say to my dad, thanks and questions and jokes and promises--but all I wanted to say, all there really was to say, is "I love you." I just wanted him to hear me tell him, one last time, and maybe he would be able to hear all that extra stuff in my voice.
But I never got the chance, he was too far gone.
And I know that he loved me, and I know he knew that we all loved him right back. Yet that doesn't take away the hurt and the loss of not being able to tell him at the last.
I find myself thinking about small, insignificant things, like the socks he wore, the color of his wallet. The way that his wedding ring had created two huge calluses on his finger over the years. The smell of his clothes. The clinking sound I'd hear from down the hall when he put his car keys and change on his dresser. How he would clean his glasses with a paper towel at the kitchen sink. How safe I felt when he hugged me.
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