100 Days

It's been 14 weeks...or three months...or 100 days since my father died in the early morning hours of June 19th, 2012.  I don't know how the time has passed but somehow it must  have, because September is almost over and the leaves are starting to change and the cards of condolence stopped coming a long time ago and I find myself pretending to function on a somewhat very normal level.  And yet the loss is part of my every moment, my every thought.  Our closeness, and now the absence of that, has been more painful than I could ever had prepared for. 

In the last 100 days I have:

Cried.  In yoga.  At the bar.  At home.  On the phone.  In therapy.  In grief counseling.  In the swimming pool.  In bed.  By myself.  With friends.  In the car.  In Starbucks.  At work.  At Ravinia.  In the grocery store.  Pretty much anywhere has been fair game. 

Spent a lot of money on chair massages.  Spent a lot of money at the bar.  Raised over $1,300 for the Alzheimer's Association. 

Gone out of my way to seek out hugs and touch. 

Had panic attacks.  On the El.  In a restaurant.  At work.  In yoga.  On the streets of Downtown Evanston.  In the car.  Taken a lot of Xanax.  Taken a lot of Tylenol PM.  Taken a lot of anti-depressants. 

Been told by a psychiatrist that I'm doing just fine.  Been told by an internist that my strange symptoms (why did my arm go numb for three hours?) are all not unusual, my labs are normal so I shouldn't worry. 

Listened to a lot of Billie Holiday.  Listened to a lot of Wilco.  Listened to a lot of Beethoven.  Listened to a lot of Leonard Cohen.  Listened to a lot of Regina Spektor.  Listened to a lot of Pearl Jam.

Listened to people tell me everything they think will help: "You should drink a lot of water."  "It must be such a relief."  "You really need to get back into dating."  "He's in a better place now."  "I had a dog for a week then had to get rid of her, so I understand what you're going through."  "So you're okay now, right?" 

Been so thankful for the people who may not know what to say, but were willing to listen to me.  Been so thankful for the incredible support of my friends and the community. 

Seriously considered quitting my job.  Realized that was a seriously dumb idea. 

Slept more than I thought was possible.  Stayed awake more than I thought was possible. 

Hurt more than I thought was possible. 

I have not:

Picked up Dad's stuff from the nursing home.  They packed everything up and put it in storage, with the understanding that I can come get it whenever I'm ready.  I'm not ready. 

Picked up his ashes from the Cremation Society.  A dear friend of mine painted the wine bottle "urn" I'm planning on using...but I haven't gone to get it filled yet. 

Closed his Mastercard account.  I'm so used to having the card in my wallet.  I haven't used it, the account balance is zero, the bank accounts are all closed...but that silver card looks so comfortable in my wallet.  I realize that I could close the account and keep the card.  This is an obsolete idea. 

Gone to the beach.  All summer.  I love the beach.  I couldn't go. 

Had a memorial service- it seemed way too overwhelming.  I am slowly working towards one, after attending a dear friend's mother's service last week. 

Gone more than 20 minutes without thinking about him.  The car, work, the apartment at night, are the worst.  You think I'm talking to you?  You think you see me laughing?  Chances are, I'm thinking about him.  Or the lack of him.  Or my loneliness. 

And I am not alone.  I know this.  I have the best friends, co-workers, community a gal could ask for.  But something has been missing for the past 100 days, and it's irreplaceable. 

I am not thinking about the next 100 days.  I am not thinking about tomorrow.  I am thinking about getting through tonight.  It's not "One day at a time."  It's smaller than that- the next  half hour, this moment.  I want to cherish this moment.  I want to be happy.  I want to smile, really smile again. 

I want to love again.  I want to be loved again. 




 

Friday

"Today is Friday...Fish Day Friday, is everybody happy, then I must say!"  So says one of my residents, but she also says the same thing for Thursday... and Wednesday.  This morning, when asked how she was feeling, her answer was "terrible".  Are you in pain?  "No."  Are you sad?  "No.  I'm just terrible."  And I could sort of sympathize with her, even though my job at that point was to encourage, support, and uplift her.  For my resident, all it took was a tambourine, a visit from a therapy dog, and a theatrical rendition (by me) of "Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue".  Terrible quickly turned into Terrific. 

I'm not "in pain."  I'm not "sad," otherwise, how could I function "so well"?  I mean, I get up.  Okay, so today I finally woke up to the third alarm, 20 minutes later than I had planned.  I was only 4 minutes late for work, which is better than the usual 6-7 minutes.  Because I don't care.  Which isn't true.  But it is.  I hate mornings.  So much.  I just want to sleep forever, and things like "work" and "life" seems to get in the way of that, grr. 

And really, it was a decent day...I mean, yeah.  We had a music therapy program this morning, one of my favorite activities.  My residents get caught up in the music (as do I), and there is so much love and connection and emotion and engagement and feeling in the room it's overwhelming.  I talked with the music therapist, a good friend of mine, for quite a while after the session and we made plans to see a jazz show in the upcoming weeks.  During my lunch break, I did a phone interview with someone for an upcoming article I'm writing, and got inspired again by the ideas and principles of fair trade and sustainability.  In the afternoon I leafed through Ladies Home Journal with a resident who Oohed and Ahhed at every picture of birdhouses and Chris O'Donnell and okay, so did I.  But we shared that, and it was good.  And we laughed.  And I played "table balloon ball."  And I played Beethoven, on the piano.  And I read some poetry.  And I laughed.  And I danced.  And I helped.  And I want to think I made a difference.

And I wanted to cry.  I left work, went for a swim...the water was like home.  The water was the most comforting part of the day.  In the water I am safe....from the world.  And I can cry in the water, and it's okay. 

And I joked with some friends.  And I laughed.  And I joked.  And I wanted to cry. 

I went to an art gallery opening, for "green" artwork in Evanston because in my former life I cared about things like that.  And the art was fun...and I had two glasses of some white wine out of a recycled, compostable cup.  And I left because  couldn't stand to be there anymore...around people...laughing...caring about stuff...how could they? 

I stopped at Jewel to order a cake for a resident's 98th birthday tomorrow.  While I was there, I waved to my banker who was across the aisle in the line for the deli.  And I flirted a little with the guy in front of me in the self-checkout line...and he flirted back...and I have had a good horrible miserable day I want to cry scream yell curl up retreat hide forever. 

It's not okay.  Nothing is okay.  Nothing is normal.  People are walking down the street.  Don't they know that the world is different now?  Don't they know that nothing matters?  What is up with them? 

Tonight at Jewel I bought myself some flowers...to replace the ones that people sent after Dad died (80 days ago), to bring some life into my apartment.  Later this evening, the whole vase fell on the floor...but didn't break.  The glass didn't shatter.  The flowers are in tact. 

Life goes on.  But it doesn't.  But it has to.