I am being quite remiss in my posting these days. The only thing I can think of is that not as much is happening at work because, unfortunately, I've gotten used to the abnormalities of the general public. I did get a prank call a couple of weeks ago, but it's not exactly easily translated into writing. There are important sound effects involved, as well as some necessary dramatic pauses. I guess you'll just have to call me if you're that curious.
I've decided that since I'm fresh out of crazy KMart stories, I might as well write about other things in my life. After all, this is supposed to chronicle my struggles and triumphs as a working not-so-professional, not only my retail experiences.
Today is my class day. I teach a night class at the local community college, and because of that, it is one of my days off from KMart. Usually, I'm pretty darn lazy on Mondays. I have no good reason either, I just am. Today was no exception. Except that instead of reading Harry Potter and Twiligh fanfiction all day, I played with my dog, read a book, and watched "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." I also spent some time simply sitting in my living room, on my comfy couch, with the dog stretched out in the sunlight that was spilling across the floor. I had a cup of tea, and simply sat there. It was calming. And then a bit depressing when I looked over toward one side of the room and saw the peace lily that I brought home from my grandfather's funeral. In front of it on the table, propped up, was the leaflet from his funeral and the only sympathy card I received (from my husband's mother).
This was the first major death I've ever experienced. I've had family members die, but none that I truly remembered. Most were great-great aunts or uncles. People whom my parents grieved, and I was sad for them, but not for my own loss.
I remember very clearly the morning I got the phone call. It was the summer, so my husband was 3.5 hours away at his summer job. It was the end of July, the days were hot and muggy, even at 6:00 in the morning. I often sleep with my phone next to the bed, and almost always during the summer. In case something tragic happens, or if my husband has a work-related accident. Very rarely do I get phone calls overnight.
I had to be at work at the 'mart that day. At 10:00 AM. I didn't set the alarm because my dog is good to get me up between 8:00 and 8:30 every day. I was jarred awake at just after 6:00 by my phone. I picked it up to squint at the screen. "Mom" it said, displaying her cell phone number. A feeling of panic settled in to my stomach. Was it Dad? One of my brothers? She's been known to call me early in the morning, but never that early. So I answered. All I could hear was her choking sobs. She managed to apologize for waking me, and tell me that my grandfather had passed away during the night. I couldn't say any more than, "Mom . . ." before she cut me off, telling me she had to call everyone else. Looking back, I should have offered to do it for her. But if she's anything like me (and we are very similar), she wanted to do the calling. It gave her a way to channel her grief. A mission, something to do so she could momentarily suspend the inevitable moment when she would have to face that her father had died.
I listened to the line cut off, dropping the phone to the floor. The second that suspended it in the air before it thunked on the blanket below is etched into my emotional memory. The silent house, the glimmer of morning peaking through the curtains, my dog watching me intently from the foot of the bed, my inability to take or expel breath. And in that split second, I moved from stunned silence into sobs that wracked my entire body.
I cried myself hoarse over the next two hours. I tried to call my husband every couple of minutes. I found out later his phone was dead. Between the 4 or 5 voicemails I left and the same number of text messages, he was probably panicking by the time he woke up and called me back.
For the 4 hours between that phone call and when I had to be at work, I fought with myself. I wanted to stay home, because I would break down into tears and dry heaves at a moment's notice, but I wanted to go to work because I didn't think I could stand to sit in my house, alone, and have nothing but the knowledge of his death rolling through my brain.
Since his funeral, I have found myself experiencing strange sets of emotions. As I said, this was the first time I've had to truly confront death, and my own ideas of mortality. I've learned about the grieving process in school, and the biggest thing that has always been stressed is that everyone grieves differently. But some days, I can't help but feel like I'm doing it wrong. There was never, ever a moment of anger or denial. Never any guilt or bargaining. Though I've cried, there was never a time, since I answered that phone, where I didn't accept that it had happened, and knew it was right.
It's been two months, and I keep waiting for it to happen. I broke down and cried a few days ago, staring at the damn lily. I cry mostly because I miss him. His jokes, his smile, the smell of his house, his stubbornness, his sailor's mouth. Him teaching me to drive a boat, to water ski, letting me drive his '58 Chevy. Picking raspberries with me, telling me to stay away from boys, leaving in the middle of Mass.
I think about him often. Everyday, probably. I'm scared to let that lily die. I worry that I haven't let myself grieve, even though it doesn't feel that way. I worry that because I didn't cry more, it means I cared less.
I question if our belief in an afterlife, in something beyond death, is real, or if it's only an idea. A cold comfort after a loss. That it's not for the dead, but for the living, who are left to remember the dead.
