5:51 p.m. - 2006-04-05
In Memory of My Father
This is my first entry since the end of November. I've been in just the worst frame of mind.
I managed to write about losing Snowflake, Mirage and Pooh, but when we lost little Rita Rat in December I kind of shut down. And then in January the unthinkable happened. My father died.
It was unthinkable because he has been sick ever since I can remember. As a matter of fact, he was sick ever since he himself could remember, being born with a cleft palette and hare lip, and developing asthma and allergies to everything that moved or bloomed. He had also had a stroke, migraine syndromes, and I always suspected he had mild epilepsy on top of it.
Some of my earliest memories involved him being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. We would say our frantic prayers and he would always come back a few days later, looking weak and anemic, but still going off to his 60 hour work weeks.
He seemed unkillable. I became accustomed to the idea that he would always come back. It would always be a false alarm.
Last year he caught the flu while shoveling snow. I told at least five people that I was sure he was going to kill himself shoveling, and why couldn't he hire someone to do that? Thay all agreed, seventy-eight year olds shouldn't be shoveling snow.
On January 16, he collapsed while shoveling snow. He couldn't be revived. I feel like I jinxed him.
My sisters and I are all dealing with his death in different ways. My middle sister has responded by becoming a younger version of bitchy and narcissistic mother. My older sister has been consulting Spiritualist mediums in an effort to find out if my Dad is ok. We've actually become closer in some ways. I never imagined she would approve of my somewhat wacky spirituality.
I've responed by telling my mother off, which I have wanted to do for years, and by getting physically ill.
Nobody told me that grieving would be so physical. My lupus has flared up, I've had stomach problems, I feel exhausted all the time. It feels like the biggest effort to just drag myself out of bed. I just don't feel like doing anything, least of all write in this journal. It's hard to be witty and irreverant when your brain has shut off, or is just preoccupied with questions like "Did my father really love me?"
My father and I had a rough relationship, and that question is one I've gone over and over in the months since he died. I know he disapproved of me - my "artistic" lifestyle, my politics. Right down to my taste in clothing, I was not the daughter of his dreams. I was unliked, but was I unloved? I'm just not sure.
I know he always wanted to talk to me when I called. I would try to steer the conversation towards safe subjects - his beautiful pre-Victorian store building, his garden. He was an amazing gardener. Evidently his father was, too.
I've thought about having a memorial garden for him, but his beloved delphiniums won't grow in the heat.
0 comments
