Dark Day

It still feels unreal. I imagine it will for a long, long time.

So many tears, so many hugs, so many nice people saying, He's gone to a better place. But then you end the call or close the car door, and again, you are alone with it. And it is bleak and hard to accept. Choppy, like a rough Cape Cod ocean with a powerful undertow that can drag and pull you, churning mightily. If you don't hold your ground quite carefully, you might go under. It's my parents who first warned me about that--one day at the beach, when I was a young girl, little and light.

Sis and I laughed by Dad's bedside yesterday afternoon. Some words he used were wise and colorful--par for the course with him--and even from his deathbed, he lightened a deeply serious topic about lifesaving measures he wanted, and why.

Just last night at this time, I was sitting next to him in the ICU, talking to him. He or I would lift the oxygen mask up over his mouth so he could answer. His blood pressure was very low, but he was still sharing opinions and remembering details. Like about how often his mother made her own pasta from flour and eggs [about every three weeks, he said].

My eyes are pink and small from crying. My hair is a mess. I haven't changed my clothes since noon yesterday. I slept in this hot pink Lilly sweater and skirt, so I'd be ready to jump right up--as I had to.

Sis and I chose a casket at the funeral home in Dumont where Mom was, 30 years ago. That time, Sis went with Dad. I remember thinking how terrible, how absolutely terrible that they were shopping for a casket to put Mom in. But now it was my turn with Sis.  Metal, wood, padded--take your pick. The metal ones look like something out of a gangster movie. We chose wood. And a good suit, shirt, tie and socks.

Since H. and I saw Dad early this morning after he died, I was okay about the casket business. I knew, having seen his body, that he had fled it. Yes, his hair, his skin, his brain remains. But this box is merely part of a ritual; it will not hold my real Dad. What will be buried is his shell but not his spirit, his mind, his wonderful heart. Those have gone on to the greater good. [Didn't he always love showing me horseshoe-crab skeletons as a girl? They molt and molt, shedding one coat after another.]

Of course, beautiful things can emerge from the ugly, like a ruffly butterfly from a tightly wound cocoon. My daughter jumping up from sleep to hug and hold me. My husband making dinner, pouring me a glass of red wine, crying with me. I have my sister, my friends, my cousin. I love you honey, my brother Will said. The staff at the nursing home cried with me. My aunt and uncle were kind and supportive. The nurses in the ICU were compassionate. A complete stranger in Whole Foods, Eileen, befriended me while I chose a new pair of reading glasses [my totebag had crushed my one pair]. I told her about Dad.

The healing must be in the telling.

I must get some rest. Only slept three hours in the last 24.

Good night.