Trying to Get Back On My Feet

I haven't known how to talk about anything since my dad died. I hear other people talk about him, and I think they seem so much more reflective. Articulate. Feeling. Anything I try to say now will never, ever be enough. So, why bother? I'm shuddering right now.

I thought I was going to die myself while he was sick. My blood pressure was skyrocketing. My head pounded with intense pressure all the time. I was never in the right place. If I was in Savannah going to school I needed to be with my dad because I knew he was dying. If I was with my dad then I wasn't studying enough. There was always a test to get back home to, and for several of them I sincerely never even cracked open my books. Because I needed to watch him breathe, hear every word, sing every song. 

Even when he couldn't walk, and the words he said didn't make any sense, and I'm not sure if he could really see us anymore, he could pick up his violin, and his fingers would find the right spot on the strings. His bow would glide easily across them. He could pick up his harmonica and play you something so mournful, or soulful, or foot-stomping that you couldn't hold yourself still. Here's Daddy playing one last time with Sonia Leigh, maybe a month before he died. My aunt, his youngest sister, was able to take him out this night. I wish I could have been there, but I am so glad he got this night with her. 

My husband stayed with my dad every single day until he died. In some ways it feels good to share my grief with him. He loved my dad so much. I know he will never run out of patience for the feelings that overwhelm me out of nowhere. My dad's sisters and parents all hugged my big, anti-social, stand-offish husband, and told him he was an angel. And he was. He is. He really got my dad. He was able to finesse everybody's personalities as we were all falling apart around my dad. He translated for him when his brain had him speaking "brain salad." Our time with my dad could never have been as meaningful as it was if it weren't for my sweet husband. He carried my poor, sweet daddy to the bed where he died. He helped the hospice nurse clean and dress him. How do you ever show somebody how grateful you are for something like that?

God, there's just so much more I want to say. I don't know how to do this.

Next time I'll talk about puppies.