Dad's dead
Dad died on Monday morning. My brother and I have been dealing all the initial bureaucracy that we need to get done before the week's up. Moving his belongings to storage. That kind of stuff. In the midst of all the up-and-down emotions surrounding death.
Originally, we tried to set up a memorial service at my parent's old church, which is a low, dark building that currently lacks even an interim minister. We finally gave up on the Church of the Depressed Hobbits and decided to schedule a meal at the Boulder Chatauqua dining room instead. It's a nice, light, airy building at the base of the Rocky Mountain foothills, and feels miles better. So, tomorrow, we'll have a Memorial Lunch, sort of a Quaker/Friends circle-of-sharing, with food.
My emotions have been all over the map. Dad's passing brought a lot of my relatives out of the woodwork and we've learned a lot about our family that we never knew before. Dad's death both cleared the way for everyone to talk, and gave us a focus for it all. It's been rewarding, and I've never seen anything like it.
Practically everyone we've talked to has praised my father's gentle ability to teach kids about science, and nature. He was incredibly good at that, and I'm glad that people have come forward with all kinds of calm, sweet, genuine reminiscences about him. It's something I've forgetten about, because my focus is always on the later, more troubled years. Until I was about, oh, eleven, he was great. After that, things fell apart. Or rather, things kept going exactly as they had before, which really didn't work for beans.
Oh, and a dead dad? At 8:00 AM on a Monday morning in a Hospice room? I kept looking at him, churning with sadness, relief, numbness, and everything else. And the thought "Wow, that's very realistic!" Because the only places I've seen anything like him are zombie movies, or CSI shows.
My brother walked in and stared at him for awhile, then poked his shoulder. Dad didn't move. "Hm." murmured D___, gazing at me in surprise. "He's a stiff!"
After a few more minutes, we left, numb with grief, and relief. And he was still a stiff. Death's like that.
Originally, we tried to set up a memorial service at my parent's old church, which is a low, dark building that currently lacks even an interim minister. We finally gave up on the Church of the Depressed Hobbits and decided to schedule a meal at the Boulder Chatauqua dining room instead. It's a nice, light, airy building at the base of the Rocky Mountain foothills, and feels miles better. So, tomorrow, we'll have a Memorial Lunch, sort of a Quaker/Friends circle-of-sharing, with food.
My emotions have been all over the map. Dad's passing brought a lot of my relatives out of the woodwork and we've learned a lot about our family that we never knew before. Dad's death both cleared the way for everyone to talk, and gave us a focus for it all. It's been rewarding, and I've never seen anything like it.
Practically everyone we've talked to has praised my father's gentle ability to teach kids about science, and nature. He was incredibly good at that, and I'm glad that people have come forward with all kinds of calm, sweet, genuine reminiscences about him. It's something I've forgetten about, because my focus is always on the later, more troubled years. Until I was about, oh, eleven, he was great. After that, things fell apart. Or rather, things kept going exactly as they had before, which really didn't work for beans.
Oh, and a dead dad? At 8:00 AM on a Monday morning in a Hospice room? I kept looking at him, churning with sadness, relief, numbness, and everything else. And the thought "Wow, that's very realistic!" Because the only places I've seen anything like him are zombie movies, or CSI shows.
My brother walked in and stared at him for awhile, then poked his shoulder. Dad didn't move. "Hm." murmured D___, gazing at me in surprise. "He's a stiff!"
After a few more minutes, we left, numb with grief, and relief. And he was still a stiff. Death's like that.