February is really hard on me. I talked to Sis tonight and we agreed that it just seems to get harder every year.
On February 10, 1994 my dad died of a massive heart attack. I still remember how that morning felt even though I don't remember most of what happened between the 10th and the funeral on the 14th. It was cold. It was the coldest I've ever been and I can still feel the shivers in my stomach as we climbed into the car at 4 am to go to the hospital. I feel it everytime I get cold. I think about that morning every time I get into a cold car. The rest of the day, I can't really recall, but I remember how cold I was.
For the last fourteen years I've tried to find the silver lining in that black cloud. I have tried to make myself believe that I am a better person because of it and, while I believe that I am the sum of my experiences, I wonder about my life if I still had a dad. How bad could that really be?
I looked around and saw everybody crying in 1994 and decided that I need to be the one who wasn't and I don't think I ever really realized how hard that would be. I'm tired now. I don't really want to keep it up, but I don't necessarily know how to give it up either.
Part of me hates to say this stuff, but I also don't want to avoid what I'm feeling.
I miss him terribly. I don't know that I've admittted that to myself really, but it's true. I realized that this week. I miss being loved by my father. A lot.
There's nothing I can do to get that back and it breaks my heart. For fourteen years it's broken my heart and I think it always will.
Grandma Rosie died in 1997 and I remember the feeling when I realized she was going to die. I left her hospital room and felt my heart break. I mean that literally. I could feel it. My heart broke for losing her, but all the more because this time I knew what death meant. I never knew that someone would just stop being in my life before my dad died. Do you know what that's like? I truthfully pray that you don't.
And how is a person supposed to deal with that? Please don't really answer that one. As well-intentioned as your response will be, it'll be offensive to me. So, it's probably best to consider the question rhetorical. After all, I'm not really looking for advice or your approval of my emotions. I just want to say what's on my mind.
Then Aunt Che died in 2002. I've been thinking about her lately, too. She was really sick when she died and I prayed for her a lot.
I prayed for her to die. I thought that was the only way for her to be healed. I thought it was the only way that she could be free and happy.
I wish I could have had enough faith to believe she could be healed, but I didn't. That makes me sad. I remember thinking that maybe people would just keep dieing until I got it right; that it was all a test to see if I could learn the lessons of life.
I thought I had it right that time. I thought that by accepting her death before the fact and being unselfish enough to put her needs first - and in fact pray for death which would be hard on us, but freeing for her - that I had done it right.
I don't really want to go into it too much, but I thought I'd share it, too, while I'm being open and honest.
Please don't comment on this one either. If you've never been in this position, I don't want to hear your trite reminders about the nature of God. I have no need to hear from inexperienced theologians, thank you.
But, thanks for reading it anyways.