Writing and weaving through grief...
I keep saying to write more, but there are times where I balk at writing because it makes it feel real. And I know this is WHY I should write, but maybe, if I just keep pushing, just keep doing, the thought that you're gone and in my bookcase won't haunt me as much. I feel this pang of emptiness. I keep hearing my own voice say, "Hi, Da-ee" with your response "Hi, Pooh Pooh" pinging around my brain. I don't know why. Maybe it's starting to settle that I won't hear that anymore. I had the thought that I hadn't even saved a voicemail from you. I have one from Momma with you in the background, making that high-pitched owl sound. That is at least fond.
There are conflicting emotions; I've settled away from the "was I a good daughter?" and "do I have any regrets?" Thankfully, the responses to the former is "yes" and the latter is "no." I gave up a long time ago thinking we had more time than we did, so I always tried to be the best and authentic me, even if I was crabby or you were triggering or I was overwhelmed. Indeed, you were gone in a day. I couldn't have prevented the stroke. I'm thankful you went quickly and came home at least for a little bit to annoy Momma before you died. There's some peace in that.
She misses you dearly, by the way. She's stopped crying as often. We're still dealing with the fallout; bills, insurance, trying to figure out her insurance. And oh sweet Jesus, the Florida house finally sold! Sort of- I mean, we'll be tangled with them for awhile, but at least the monthly expenses are off our plate. This past week was particularly harrowing, trying to corral both Fidget and Momma into a UPS to notarize the Biggest Papers Ever. I think she'll sleep easier knowing we've almost entirely backed out of Florida.
Apparently, my own sleep hasn't been the greatest, which is why I'm writing tonight. Fidget is now telling me my snoring is out of control, which is odd since I typically only snore if I'm on my back or sick, and I thought I was neither? He isn't sleeping well as a result, and naturally, this just snowballs into Everything Is Horrible. We keep putting more and more work into our marriage and trying to suss out how to communicate and what needs to be done in order to be happy.
This concept of "happy." I find myself pretty even-keeled. I speak of your death like a fact, which I'm hopeful is because I've been processing it and honoring the grief when it comes. I haven't seen as many fire trucks lately. But I was walking into downtown Baltimore and distinctly smelled your cologne waft over me. I have those moments where I just quietly go, "Hi, Da-ee" and then the moment passes and I'm back in my life, where there's so many balls in the air, trying to get things done.
I had a friend recently text me that I was so top rung of the ladder where the rest of "them" are just looking at it. It's that resilience you instilled in me, I guess. I can't tell if I'm being resilient or coping by planning my way through it. I had another friend say that to me, too, and I guess she's right. I cope by planning and making lists.
It's been really hard lately, and I think it's due to the house stress. I keep waffling between being so grateful and thankful for Fidget to wanting to poke him with a spoon; there's this piece of me that wants to lie on your big chest and have you pet my hair. I'm way too big now, but we would still do it from time to time.
"Do you want me to kill him?"
"No, Da-ee."
"Okay, Pooh."
And you would ask for details and I'd say no, it's between Fidget and I, and then you would launch into this tirade about how anything involving YOUR daughter is YOUR business and then Momma would get involved and probably holler, "She's an adult, Carroll!" And you would get blustery and demand to know more, then I would get aggravated, and I'd pull away because you were entitled, and you were so big and wanting to protect your daughter from this Big Walrus, but dammit, Da-ee, it's not your fight to fight.
Then you would tucker yourself out, and probably fall asleep. Momma and I would sit up into the night, smoking, quietly laughing you got all blustery, but both knowing deep in our hearts, how damned hard you loved both of us.
I've started laying on Fidget more, which is still comical since we're roughly the same size and oh yeah, he is Aspie. So he tries to pet my hair but it feels more like a child learning to pet a cat. Thump, thump his hand goes across my scalp, which oddly is comforting in his own walrus-like way. I hear his heartbeat clearly through his chest, much like I heard yours. Such a good pulse, he has. And this grief can be so heavy and yucky and overwhelming to my poor walrus, that all he does is see me cry as I type this journal and sit there, silently supporting me.
The president of the union called; wanted to tell me how he was reminded today of how he always called you to thank you for your service, and wearing two uniforms instead of just the one.
I still don't trust the grief, or maybe I'm to not trust it? Socks was having some pooping-out-of-the-box issues (he's okay, Da-ee, calm down) and I took him to the vet. I was talking with the vet about how Socks acting up and you being dead and Socks originally being your cat was a bit too much for me to handle right now with the house closing, and the vet swooped in and just hugged me. It was unexpected and I hugged him back. I wonder sometimes when the "my father just died" comment will lose its luster. Can you believe it's been like six weeks?? SIX WEEKS! And the turkey is coming soon, and I'm glad you got to have at least one Thanksgiving in my home before you died.
I think of the upcoming holidays and overall, I'm kinda meh? And maybe it's because our holidays got all sorts of scrambled over the years, so I don't have this distorted schema of what Christmas is supposed to be like? Or Thanksgiving? The last Christmas we spent together was in 2015 when I had moved home to take care of Momma. I think the last Thanksgiving, before last year, was 2003? Maybe? I think your birthday is going to be particularly traumatic, which is more upsetting since I'll be in Scotland and Momma will be here, and oh, that might be messy.
Or might not! Maybe it'll be groovy. Maybe you'll forget the day with all that time flying around, Jess, now you calm down.
I'm still planning on making a turkey, though less fixings since you're not coming. Momma keeps wanting me to make just a turkey breast, but NO! I want to make a turkey again! And there's talk of a Friendsgiving with Trips and Caterpillar, which might just be what we need after all this. I guess there's really no "after this," though, is there? This is just my new normal. It won't hurt so bad, and my chest won't get all tight and I won't quietly sob next to your cat and my husband.
We grieve hard because we love hard, right?
I need to breathe and honor this instead of planning through it. Time will keep marching on: one hour, two days, three weeks. And here we are, almost two months. I'm hoping that the absent thoughts of "Oh, I'm a bad daughter because I haven't visited Da-ee in awhile" will stop soon. I took a very precious picture of Socks the other day, all wrapped up under the blanket, and still wanted to text it to you.
I guess I'll just have to keep writing...
... you may be dead, but my relationship to you isn't.
There are conflicting emotions; I've settled away from the "was I a good daughter?" and "do I have any regrets?" Thankfully, the responses to the former is "yes" and the latter is "no." I gave up a long time ago thinking we had more time than we did, so I always tried to be the best and authentic me, even if I was crabby or you were triggering or I was overwhelmed. Indeed, you were gone in a day. I couldn't have prevented the stroke. I'm thankful you went quickly and came home at least for a little bit to annoy Momma before you died. There's some peace in that.
She misses you dearly, by the way. She's stopped crying as often. We're still dealing with the fallout; bills, insurance, trying to figure out her insurance. And oh sweet Jesus, the Florida house finally sold! Sort of- I mean, we'll be tangled with them for awhile, but at least the monthly expenses are off our plate. This past week was particularly harrowing, trying to corral both Fidget and Momma into a UPS to notarize the Biggest Papers Ever. I think she'll sleep easier knowing we've almost entirely backed out of Florida.
Apparently, my own sleep hasn't been the greatest, which is why I'm writing tonight. Fidget is now telling me my snoring is out of control, which is odd since I typically only snore if I'm on my back or sick, and I thought I was neither? He isn't sleeping well as a result, and naturally, this just snowballs into Everything Is Horrible. We keep putting more and more work into our marriage and trying to suss out how to communicate and what needs to be done in order to be happy.
This concept of "happy." I find myself pretty even-keeled. I speak of your death like a fact, which I'm hopeful is because I've been processing it and honoring the grief when it comes. I haven't seen as many fire trucks lately. But I was walking into downtown Baltimore and distinctly smelled your cologne waft over me. I have those moments where I just quietly go, "Hi, Da-ee" and then the moment passes and I'm back in my life, where there's so many balls in the air, trying to get things done.
I had a friend recently text me that I was so top rung of the ladder where the rest of "them" are just looking at it. It's that resilience you instilled in me, I guess. I can't tell if I'm being resilient or coping by planning my way through it. I had another friend say that to me, too, and I guess she's right. I cope by planning and making lists.
It's been really hard lately, and I think it's due to the house stress. I keep waffling between being so grateful and thankful for Fidget to wanting to poke him with a spoon; there's this piece of me that wants to lie on your big chest and have you pet my hair. I'm way too big now, but we would still do it from time to time.
"Do you want me to kill him?"
"No, Da-ee."
"Okay, Pooh."
And you would ask for details and I'd say no, it's between Fidget and I, and then you would launch into this tirade about how anything involving YOUR daughter is YOUR business and then Momma would get involved and probably holler, "She's an adult, Carroll!" And you would get blustery and demand to know more, then I would get aggravated, and I'd pull away because you were entitled, and you were so big and wanting to protect your daughter from this Big Walrus, but dammit, Da-ee, it's not your fight to fight.
Then you would tucker yourself out, and probably fall asleep. Momma and I would sit up into the night, smoking, quietly laughing you got all blustery, but both knowing deep in our hearts, how damned hard you loved both of us.
I've started laying on Fidget more, which is still comical since we're roughly the same size and oh yeah, he is Aspie. So he tries to pet my hair but it feels more like a child learning to pet a cat. Thump, thump his hand goes across my scalp, which oddly is comforting in his own walrus-like way. I hear his heartbeat clearly through his chest, much like I heard yours. Such a good pulse, he has. And this grief can be so heavy and yucky and overwhelming to my poor walrus, that all he does is see me cry as I type this journal and sit there, silently supporting me.
The president of the union called; wanted to tell me how he was reminded today of how he always called you to thank you for your service, and wearing two uniforms instead of just the one.
I still don't trust the grief, or maybe I'm to not trust it? Socks was having some pooping-out-of-the-box issues (he's okay, Da-ee, calm down) and I took him to the vet. I was talking with the vet about how Socks acting up and you being dead and Socks originally being your cat was a bit too much for me to handle right now with the house closing, and the vet swooped in and just hugged me. It was unexpected and I hugged him back. I wonder sometimes when the "my father just died" comment will lose its luster. Can you believe it's been like six weeks?? SIX WEEKS! And the turkey is coming soon, and I'm glad you got to have at least one Thanksgiving in my home before you died.
I think of the upcoming holidays and overall, I'm kinda meh? And maybe it's because our holidays got all sorts of scrambled over the years, so I don't have this distorted schema of what Christmas is supposed to be like? Or Thanksgiving? The last Christmas we spent together was in 2015 when I had moved home to take care of Momma. I think the last Thanksgiving, before last year, was 2003? Maybe? I think your birthday is going to be particularly traumatic, which is more upsetting since I'll be in Scotland and Momma will be here, and oh, that might be messy.
Or might not! Maybe it'll be groovy. Maybe you'll forget the day with all that time flying around, Jess, now you calm down.
I'm still planning on making a turkey, though less fixings since you're not coming. Momma keeps wanting me to make just a turkey breast, but NO! I want to make a turkey again! And there's talk of a Friendsgiving with Trips and Caterpillar, which might just be what we need after all this. I guess there's really no "after this," though, is there? This is just my new normal. It won't hurt so bad, and my chest won't get all tight and I won't quietly sob next to your cat and my husband.
We grieve hard because we love hard, right?
I need to breathe and honor this instead of planning through it. Time will keep marching on: one hour, two days, three weeks. And here we are, almost two months. I'm hoping that the absent thoughts of "Oh, I'm a bad daughter because I haven't visited Da-ee in awhile" will stop soon. I took a very precious picture of Socks the other day, all wrapped up under the blanket, and still wanted to text it to you.
I guess I'll just have to keep writing...
... you may be dead, but my relationship to you isn't.