Hurting

I was dusting, getting ready for our Superbowl Party yesterday. As I drug the Windex Wipe across his face, I collapsed on the leather recliner in tears. The kind where your whole face is wet, the kind that is such a release that you don't really want to stop until you've gotten it all out. And so, that's what I did.

I think the past two months have mostly been marked by shock and denial. I have been sad, but I have functioned. Every day, I have gotten up, gone to work, etc. Right after his passing, I had a hard time going to work, but for the most part, I was hanging in there.

I guess I am moving into a new phase of grief. It feels real, painfully real. I think about him a lot, and it is the worst pain in the world knowing I can't pick up the phone and call him. I can't go to his house and see him. Oh, it hurts.

I thought this is how I would feel all along. I almost felt guilty that I felt decent. I talked about this with a friend over lunch last weekend who lost her father last year, and she shared similar feelings. For a while, you are just in shock. I guess it's your body and mind's way of protecting you. And then slowly but surely, it tells you the awful truth.

I remember him like I saw him yesterday. He is so real to me, and I think he always will be. I was telling my dad that I remember my Mama Dean (his grandmother) vividly too. I remember how she looked, how if you touched her hair that it wouldn't really move. I remember what toothpaste she used (Close-Up) and her chihuahuas Bambi and Sissy. Her truck was named Roger and she made the best teacakes in the world. I loved it when she told me scary stories about Jack - the pretend man that lived in the field across the street. She made the most beautiful quilts. She's been gone for 10 years now. If I remember her this vividly, it gives me solace knowing that I will remember Abbu forever.

But in addition to solace, I also feel anger and guilt. I feel angry because I catch myself walking around like a judge and jury. Why is that evil person still alive? Why wasn't my grandfather granted more years? Why didn't the doctors save him? Why??? I guess this is where faith comes in, for I will never know why. And then I feel guilty for letting myself think that way.

And what really scares me is that tiny grain of doubt in my mind. What if this is it? I hope and pray that there is more than this, that I will see Abbu again. Of course I have faith, but I am scared too. I am scared that I will never hear him laugh again or see him working out equations on a green engineering pad. I want to talk with him about things, about education and world affairs. I want him to hug me and call me Doogie.

Labels: family