A year ago today at this moment, I was waiting for my father to die. I had recently returned from a trip to visit him and my family, and it was clear he wasn’t going to hang on much longer. I had pretty much said goodbye then, so I decided not to travel back for the death watch but rather wait for the funeral and to help with post-mortem errands.
The afternoon dragged on as I kept expecting the phone to ring, for The Moment to arrive. As I prepared to leave my office, my sister called. She told me he died, we talked a bit, and I hung up. I cried for two minutes, then, slumped in my task chair, stared at the walls and the stuff in my office. I’d been bracing myself, as if the moment I got the news I would bust through a barrier. It was more like my engine failed or my tank ran dry, and I just slowly, slowly rolled to a stop.
Conventional wisdom says the first year of grief is the hardest. Yeah, whatever. It’s a cultural lie designed to make life emotionally tidy and to create structure for Hallmark Channel movies. For me, there were easy moments of Yeah-I-know-Dad-died-but-it-didn’t-really-happen-right? as the idea sank in. I also had the benefit of my mother visiting for half of the year, and she, Doug, and I had some good talks about Dad and not about Dad. And there were plenty of oh-yeah-Dad’s-really-dead moments. Daily.
The only thing I might change besides, you know, resurrecting my father, is that I would have preferred to be there when he died. Or close by. Even on my way there. Losing my shit on a layover in Detroit seems preferable to plodding on distractedly in my office. I’ve had a year’s worth of work days to do that, and some days I still do. I didn’t have more to say to him. Maybe I wanted to be useful to my family. Mainly, I wanted to witness the event.
I wonder what it is about commemorating a year that feels important. I think I’m just programmed to acknowledge the day and my first full trip around the sun without Dad. Doug is better at ritual. He’ll help me think of something commemorative to do that’s just right, something small, probably involving ice cream and swearing at other drivers.