So eight months. Here we are. Here I am. What. The. Fuck.
Where am I at eight months in? Actually, not bad, considering the global pandemic and the fact that my world has been reduced to at most a five mile radius, and most my time is spent in my the four walls of my house with a four legged beast for company.
Read MoreI look both ways, left, and then right, and left again, checking to see if I could find a gap in the traffic across the four lanes of Evans Avenue. My helmet was looped over the left handle bar, held in place by my left hand gripping the handle, my right hand holding the back handle of the scooter, behind the saddle. That’s right, I was not astride the scooter, but rather next to it, crossing Evans on foot.
Read MoreI wish I had more to bring you than a post a month. Or even every 45 days, but things aren’t happening to me the same way these days then when my dad was dying. Back then, time mattered. Then, weeks were significant chunks of time, days mattered. Between COVID-19 and the loss of my dad, time moves by differently.
Read MoreI’m tired of the word “sad”. I think about being sad every day, even if I’m not particularly sad. I looked up some synonyms and prefer the following words: glum, melancholic, disconsolate, forlorn. Today I am forlorn.
Read MoreDear Dad -
I really miss you today. It’s Mother’s Day, and Mommy was so good to me as she always is (I did make her lunch, to be clear), and yet I just can’t stop wishing you were here, too. I haven’t cried a lot since you’ve been gone, but today I’m fairly overcome.
Read MoreIt has been one month since my dad died.
One month since I last held his hand, one month since I got to have one last conversation with him - a conversation I am trying so hard to recall all the details of, but find them slipping through my memory.
Read MoreLast week I found myself lying in the fetal position in the middle of the floor in the dark, my cheek starting to adhere to the wood as the mixture of snot and tears had begun to make a paste and dry as my tears receded back into their tear ducts.
Read MoreSo please, as my friends and supporters, know how grateful I am for you, and how much I love you. Please accept my humble thanks and apologies. I am not convinced this is the nadir of my grief, so please hang in there with me a little longer. And once my dad’s “closing date” is upon us, I hope that all your kind offers to feed me and wine me and help me will be gladly accepted, they mean so much to me.
Read MoreToday, on Thanksgiving 2019, I am not thankful.
Read MoreToday was more emotionally charged than the days have been for the past few weeks. This morning, I found myself tearing up as I was going southbound on I-25, driving to work, listening to Dolly Parton’s (and Emmylou Harris and Linda Rondstadt’s) rendition of “After the Gold Rush” and regretting that of all days, today I’d decided to put on eye makeup.
Read MoreI’ve written to you before about my perception of time, and how it’s changed / has been evolving over the past couple of months.
Read MoreSo I have a confession to make: my grief story isn’t all about being sad.
Read MoreWhen I say I’m on an emotional roller-coaster…
Read MoreThis is probably not the most flattering story about myself that I’m about to tell, but I’m going to tell you anyways, and I pray that you won’t hold it against me.
Read MorePeople don’t like to talk about grief, particularly their own. It’s scary. But there is no way to avoid it, particularly when you are waiting for the worst to happen. I will tell you about my grief.
Read MoreOn August 21, 2019, we learned that we were counting the rest of my dad’s life not in years, but in months.
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