Dad died last monday night.
That's a stark sentence to write. It's a stark thing to say over and over in all the phone calls that had to be made. I know this isn't anything new. People do this all the time. But now it's my turn. and I hate it, and I don't, and I don't really know what.
I'm keeping busy. I've tried to go, and do, and be around people every day for the last week. It helps.
I got a new tattoo Saturday, for dad. He'd hate it, and that makes it even better in a way. I told him I was going to do the last time I was in Memphis. He shuddered, and then said that I was an adult and I could do whatever I wanted. Then he shuddered again. He was obsessed with the fleur di lis. He had key chains, ties, thumb tacks, pillows, sheets, soaps, and even toilet paper with fleur di lis patterns. So... I thought it was appropriate.
I'm doing... ok. Some moment's I'm just fine and others I'm a wreck. That's to be expected too. The worst moments are when I forget for a second. Remembering is a lot like hell. But I'm glad he doesn't hurt anymore and I'm glad he wasn't stuck in bed during a long, slow dying. And he kept his sense of humor. He turned to look at me that night and said, "I'm dying."
"I know," I said.
He looked at me again, "No, I mean right now." It was the sort of twisted humor that we shared. Even the nurse got in on it. That helped a little. That he could laugh about it right at the end.
A while back, right after we found out that we hadn't beaten the cancer he said to me that "if 80% of people make it then someone has to be in the 20% and why not me? But if whoever I'm giving up my place for doesn't end hunger, or cure AIDS, or save children then we're going to have a long talk when they get to Heaven." I gotta say... that's fair. Whoever you are... do some good ok? He deserves it.