Just Because

Some days, I want to do nothing. I want to look sad and have somebody ask me why I’m sad and I’ll say, “My dad died a month ago.” And they’ll understand – and then leave me alone because no one really likes to hang out with someone as sad as me.

But I smile most days. I act like I’m fine. I do not cry. I go through all the necessary motions, wishing that I had some excuse to break down, some addiction to get me through the day.

But I smile. And unfortunately I can’t carry a big sign that says,

“JUST PRETENDING. GRIEVING AND DEPRESSED.”

So everyone thinks I’m ok. Everyone really wants to believe it. And they don’t really want to know that I’m not.

So I smile.

I am very sad and very overwhelmed with many things to do. I have been in the Dominican Republic since Monday and I will be back in the United States on Sunday. I miss my son, I miss my dad and I miss my innocence. 

See you next week.

Dad and me

Whenever I’ve gone to a counselor they always say the same thing: “You never talk about your father.”

And I usually don’t.

My dad is a great dad for three year old’s. He’s a lot of fun. Likes to joke around, make faces, do theatrics. Responsibility was never his thing and I’ve had a hard time letting go that he never went to my high school graduation… or my wedding. But he is a fun guy. And a nice guy.

And every time you see the word “is” in the previous paragraph I almost typed “was”. Because my dad really was a fun guy. He might not be so fun anymore because he rarely stands anymore. He’s lost a lot of weight. He doesn’t eat anymore, only drinks glasses of milk when he can keep it down.

I found out at the end of October that my dad has cancer. Colon cancer. I found out five days later that it was Stage IV colon cancer. Inoperable. Vasculerized tumor. Too big, too spread out. My dad is going to die.

It’s been a couple of months. He went from “not feeling well” to “going to die any day now” in two months.

I’ve gone to see him a couple of times. He met Tomas. I had not seen him for two and a half years. I speak to him a couple of times a year. I never called because I never knew what to say. I still don’t.

I find that I talk about my father now more than I ever used to. I never expected to grieve his death. I didn’t think I cared enough. I guess I was wrong.