I was there when my dad died. THIS is the part I can't forget.
The funeral is in an hour and a half. I am barely holding it together. At this moment, I’m pretty sure I feel a panic attack coming on. I feel it brimming up from my gut to my throat, and then to my eyes. I am short of breath and the lump in my chest feels like it’s climbing up my esophagus.
I make haste to the bathroom. There’s someone in there. I knock on the door and I hear my fucking husband: “Be right out!” Of course he’s hiding in there. He comes out; I push my way in and sob into the bathroom sink. Big, ugly, gasping-for-breath cries. Better to do this now, I tell myself, than in front of an audience at the funeral.
I’m startled by a sudden, sharp rap on the door. Without waiting for a response, my mom flings the door open. She sees me crying desperately into the blue ceramic and spits, “What the hell are you doing?”
I start to move toward her… and then I see her hardened expression. She is disgusted. Her jaw is set, and there is no softness in her stare. “Get your shit together, Patricia.”
I’m shocked into a momentary silence. Mom takes the opportunity to add, “You know, you may have lost your dad, but I’ve lost my husband. God forbid you ever find out what that’s like.”
Against my will, I start to cry again. Mom, you have no idea. I wish it had been me, and not you, who lost their spouse. I would have traded places in a heartbeat if it meant you keeping your husband and me keeping my favorite parent. You have no idea how unfair this is to both of us.
She doesn’t soften her voice, but she lowers it. “There’s Ativan in my desk drawer. Go take one. We’re leaving in half an hour,” she hisses. “Get your shit together.”
I do what I am told. I take an Ativan and I get my shit together.
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This is an excerpt from a longer passage about the day my dad died and everything that came with it. I posted this in the hope of hearing others' thoughts - especially if anything stuck with you.
Find the full post here: https://substack.com/home/post/p-193644354