Hey, my friends, I made it. Yesterday was Father's Day, (and I know, it's a Hallmark Holiday), and I made it with the help of friends, feojoada, and the World Cup. My friends and I have been gathering, as we're able, at K's house for the games that are played every day. There are three games; one at 6.30am, one at 9am, and one at 1.30pm. The structure of this has been very, very good for me. It gives me something to look forward to, plan for. Please don't misread this: usually I love my carefree summers, and I am hugely grateful for them. This summer, though, I've been hiding out a lot, and the World Cup has brought me out of the cave. It's a month-long "festival" of foods, friends, and fun. We have eaten incredibly well, and frankly, this has helped re-invigorate my appetite. It's also helped me learn better how to "just be" with friends, rather than my usual modus operandi--which is to gauge the situation and create my "fitting in" persona. (I'm tellin' ya, I've wasted a lot of my life trying to fit in.)
Yesterday came on the heels of a fun day, a wedding. I rode to the wedding with two friends (my husband was playing at the reception, so he drove separately), and again, felt easy going. These guys are very dear to me, and funny as hell. At the reception, my husband snapped a picture of us; a visible confirmation that our lightheartedness is returning. A nagging headache put a bit of a damper on the day, but all in all, weddings are so life-affirming, how can one *not* have a good day?
The feojoada on Sunday was fabulous. Brasil was playing (one of the favorites to win the Cup), and my friend K was cooking. Feojoada is a Brasilian stew with all kinds of smoked meat, beans, and greens. God, it was good. We were all there early (9am) to watch the Azzuri (Forza Italia) and then for Brasil. A friend asked me how I was doing. I answered honestly, that I was okay. She had just returned from a family gathering--her grandmother had just passed away--and I wanted to know how she was. Her grandmother was 101! As my friend put it, "she had a good run."
This got me thinking of my parents; I would never see them old, never have to contemplate nursing facilities, not be part of the generation between children and elderly parents. Not that I have children. I guess that's the upside (?) of losing my parents when they were in their sixties.
So, I did make it through the games, and needed to hit the supermarket to get supplies for my contribution--tortas de patatas for the Spain game. I was fine until I hit the pudding aisle. My father used to make this concoction called Icebox Cake, which is layers of graham crackers, chocolate pudding, vanilla pudding, butterscotch pudding, and sometimes sliced bananas. I LOST it in the pudding aisle. My father would never make Icebox Cake again. What other things are dying along with him? How can I remember them all? Should I start making lists, writing down stories, collecting memorabilia? What am I forgetting?
Completely overwhelmed, I was bawling at the store, and called my husband. Once I got home, I sobbed. My lovely and patient husband encouraged me to let it out. He asked if there was anything he could do. My response was like that of a young child: "I just want him back!" And I kept crying.
And, scene.
I'm still on The Griefmobile.
Halfway through the first year. Seems impossible. Everything feels raw still, new, sad, confusing. I can still hear my Dad's voice and see his face in my head. I keep his watch, which is still ticking, next to my bed, and I put it on last night. I am fearing the day it stops ticking. I am afraid. It was working while he was still alive, all through the chemotherapy, the radiation, the morphine, the oxygen, the ativan, the hospital. His funeral; he was wearing it in his casket. It was ticking after his heart was not. I'm afraid of how I'll feel when his watch stops. I look at it at least twice a day, to make sure it's still working.
About Me
- Catherine
- In this blog I have created a haven, a place I allow my deepest emotions to go and sit. I can write easily about what I’ve accomplished. This biography I can recite in my sleep. But I’ve always written poetry and in diaries since I was a teenager. I continued to write poetry in my journals, and not until 2006 did I show them to anyone. I generally write every day, at the present in memoir form. I haven’t written poetry since my mother died in January, 2007. I didn’t write at all between her death and the death of my father three years later in January, 2010. On my father’s birthday in March, 2010, I began this blog, to honor my father and to help me grieve. But I also desperately needed to write, and this stream of conscious style emerged. I needed to find my organic voice.
hi catherine. again, i think it is so brave of you to share this deeply personal experience of yours with others out here in blogworld. if i was in your state i would hug the heck out of you!
ReplyDeletei also want to say how beautiful your relationship with your father is. i know you know this, but you are so lucky to have a parent with whom you were so close. i am quite envious, i have to admit. i have always felt a bit like a parentless child, not because my parents are deceased, but because we really have never connected in the kind of way that you were so lucky to have connected with your father. it is painful, but it's something i've accepted is just not going to be in my life. i hope to have the opportunity with my own children someday to show them love in a way that i was not. reading about you and your father's relationship is really inspiring to me. the pudding thing and the sandwich blog really touched me; i can't imagine how tough those things are, but you are so lucky to have those memories of him.