I should start off with a zen refocused reminder to myself... I'm sitting on my back deck, feet propped up on chairs that were essentially free, watching the stars slowly reveal themselves, wearing an oversized university-i-didn't-go-to sweatshirt I stole, albeit with his permission, from the boy I'm trying to date, belly full of brats from the mega batched I grilled last night after a two workout day while waiting for Wileycat to come home from his evening adventures so I can give him ear drops, which he absolutely detests even if he knows there's treats right after. Note to self... bad day. good life. repeat as needed. Tomorrow's another day, but life is still good.
If an old episode of The West Wing is to be believed- and I've seen every one multiple times, use it as my reference for probably way too many things in life- then I should be perfectly normally on track. May 13th was the 6 month anniversary of my dad passing away from cancer. While I can remember so many details of that November day, I tried to do everything in my power to make that sunny spring day be like any other. I went to work, ate lunch with the usual group of coworkers, went for a run after work, then came home to attend to usual house stuff.
What wasn't normal was the topic of conversation on the run. My running partner is also a member of the "Half-Orphaned Club", also thanks to cancer, so we swapped stories of the days leading up to our parents' death, the stories of the funeral, and the awkward attempts to move on. I marked the 160-something days since the dad I'd become so disconnected from with as much attempt to be strong and brave as possible, but my armor got chipped seeing how much my friend missed her mom and best friend after thousands of days.
But then I was fine. I didn't run the next day, ending my 12 day streak, had an awesome time in St. Louis for work that Thursday, and almost sent my sister a text to go "woo! survived the dreaded 6 month craziness you warned me about!' but figured that was a tad morbid. I just thought it.
I'm a little slow, though, and like to do things on my own darn timeline. I was actually really grateful that my dad passed when he did. November was a crazy busy month this fall, and he seemed to time it perfectly to let me fun a half marathon I'd been training for, go to the first day of an awesome work training but get out of the crappy 2nd day by dying that morning, funeral was far enough in the distance that I could still have work meetings that 3 people had flown in for from Minnesota, and then just bug the crap out of the universe, go see my family, and be back to "normal" for Thanksgiving. The funeral sucked and I cried tons, but I had a life 800 miles away to come back to, as life, for me, went on.
Two weeks later, though, I had this knock down drag out fight with the boyfriend over Thanksgiving plans. The kind of fight where I left, slamming the door, telling him to go do something anatomically impossible. I'd seemed normal, had come back seemingly all bandaged up, life hurdle cleared, ready to go, but inside, I realize I was just beginning to feel all the pain. In the "makeup" to the fight, I asked him "couldn't you cut me slack?! My dad just died..." I won't even give you a nickname or real name, because that was just another crumble in our foundation, and he's just a guy I sometimes ask to Wiley-sit now.
So, knowing that the 6 month anniversary was coming, I very delicately walked up to it, and, well, it was a tranquilized bear, totally scary looking, but not at all evil once I got up to it and then quite gracefully past it. But man, in a moment of sheer clarity today, I realize-and this is where I'm looping back around to The West Wing- that I heard Bach and thought of gunshots. It's taken a while to build, as I was fine the day of, but when my mom came into town Thursday and we just got on each other's nerves, the part of me that goes "hold on to her! She's what you have left!" kept adding straw to the camel's back.
The deafening blow came Sunday, though. A pastor was celebrating the 50th anniversary of his ordination, a big deal type thing, and in his awesome message, he mentioned a cancer scare he had 12 years ago, and how he had to reconcile the fact that he might not wake up as he was getting prepped for surgery. He said his goodbyes, but asked God to keep him alive if that was His plan. As he was standing in front of us, obviously he lived, and while that message, along with the other theological points, made me think and really connect the Gospel text to my Monday-Saturday life, it still made me cry. If you think about what's "fair", it makes sense that this pastor would "deserve" to live and the dad that had alienated his 4 kids should succumb to cancer in the timeline the doctors predicted.
I heard one tale of woe that led to more great things for the world thanks to a thus-far happy ending, ended up with tears streaming down my face thinking of a less lucky man, my mom handing me one of the tissues moms are required to carry in their purses. Throughout the weekend and today, the boy got super busy at work, as PhD students are prone to, and plans kept falling through to see him, the power company told me I had to pay a crazy deposit a week after I bought a random new tire for the car, people, as they are apt to, were just dumb at work, and all of these little things added up. I can usually brush them off, realize I have no control over it, so go focus on what is under my control, get some great moment of clarity...
There were so many people, though, that came up to my siblings and I to tell us how great my dad was, the ministries he started, led, the ways he truly showed God's love in the world. He wasn't a monster, just without a good example of what it meant to be a good dad, so awful compared to what we wanted and saw among our friends, and by the time he admitted to some of us that he'd messed up, it was too late to erase the decades of bitter, but enough to get set up for, so far, months of sadness.
When I get reminded of the soul darkening grief, other things pile up behind that, even if they're usually the "breathe in...breathe out...nip it in the bud, flip it into what you're grateful for, lift it to God" type things. Between bootcamp and a social 3.3 miler, I've sweated to the point of turning my face into a saltlick twice today, I bounded through trails in the woods yesterday with the freedom of a puppy in an open field, and definitely chowed down on a bratwurst before running 2.1 miles in 21 minutes on Saturday, but there's still this block. I can tell my anxiety levels when running vs. not running (taper, post-marathon soreness, other life demands) and even with the running this week, I think I'm just a tad delayed, re-absorbing the grief, lifting the bandaid to see that the scars are still pink and raw.
Honestly, I think the simple of act of realizing a sermon from Sunday can keep me steaming Tuesday night, will let me move over it. Right? Admitting you have a problem is the first step to overcoming it? I'll call a sister, go "wth, right?!" try to send a few more prayers towards my dad, zone out to do a work thing, play with Wiley a bit more (and plot names for his furry little brother, coming in July!), memorize the lyrics to songs nobody I know is obsessed with, and, of course, keep running...at least to the next tv timeout ;)
-Syd
