It's 4:27p on Friday afternoon and I am frantically waiting for the day to be over. This is how most of the days have gone since my father died in the early morning hours of June 19, 2012, just over three weeks ago. Maybe at some point I will be able to write of the days I spent with him at the end, our experience with music thanatology, his final hours, watching him breathing, stopping, starting again...but not now. I haven't been able to revisit that time in words or thoughts very much, or even talk about him. I've cried very little. I've only screamed twice. I've gotten out of bed everyday- sometimes not until 2p, but still. I think I appear to be functioning fairly well.
And yet inside, it hurts more than I could have thought possible. Today, after another failed attempt to regulate my sleeping between 14 hours a night or insomnia (last night's Ambien allowed me to sleep from 11p-3a, toss and turn until 6a, and pass out again for 5 hours), I finally got out of bed at 11:30a. I stumbled around the apartment for a while, forced some breakfast, threw the pillows back on the bed (I haven't bothered to use sheets in a week), and rode my bike to the gym- exercise is one of my biggest stress relievers. As I headed up the stairs I ran into a dear friend of mine who has encouraged me through all of my travails with Dad over the years and has been especially supportive over the past three weeks. Although she just lost her father-in-law two days ago, all she wanted to do was listen, really listen, to how I was doing. Instead of smiling and brushing it off (to not have to "deal with it", like I've been doing a lot) I told her about the panic attacks, the fear, the emptiness, the sleep problems. We discussed how grief triggers old emotions and learned responses, and how important it is to have a strong outside network- how good it was that besides friends and community, I'm seeing a grief counselor once a week and my regular therapist once a week. Even though she was at work and had probably been there since 5a, she stopped her day to talk, listen, hug. I suddenly didn't care that it was 1p and I hadn't "done anything" all day- that 15 minute connection made it okay.
Still, I felt despondent and defeated when I left the gym and called another really close friend. She was another supportive ear and we were even able to laugh and joke about a few things. I rode my bike home, putzed around for a while, then got up the motivation to drive the car for a long-overdue emissions test, something that I guess has to happen every year or every few years- it isn't that difficult, it just involves driving a few miles and waiting in line while the mechanic pushes some buttons or whatever, but I had been putting it off. Apparently, I had also been putting off general "care of the car" because the Subaru failed the test and now I have to go to the mechanic and get code P208 fixed, whatever that is, but I can't call until tomorrow because my cell phone is out of minutes because I guess when your father dies you spend a lot of time on the phone.
I started to drive home and felt this utter wave of sadness and emptiness hit. I thought to a passage I read in one of the grief books- "There are no pat answers. No one completely understands the mystery of death. Even if the question were answered, would your pain be eased, your loneliness less terrible? There is no answer that bridges the chasm of irreparable separation."
It is now 5:07p. Unfortunately, the day still isn't over. But I have plans to go over to a friend's house, eat some homemade peach ice cream, probably have some wine, sit on her couch and she will accept me for who I am whatever state I am because that's what awesome friends do, and I have some pretty awesome friends.
But my father is no longer alive, and the reality of that is sometimes more than I want to face.
