Before you read any further, please understand one thing about me.
I am crazy.
And, as such, I absolutely use humor and absurdity to get through things. I can be serious; but that just leads to tears.
And the second thing you should understand about me:
I hate crying. It makes my eyes puffy. And I am vain.
Anyway, this week, in particular, has become one of the hardest of my life. My Dad died on September 17, 2011. He was 91. I was 34 when he died. And even though now I am 35: I feel more like 10 or 110, depending on the day.
The death of a parent ages you; but at the same time, it regresses you.
This year, the first anniversary of his death, I am choosing regression, hence the observance of Death Week 2012.
I am refusing to take phone calls and refusing most social interactions. And if you see me in public, I may pretend to be on my phone, but I really am not, unless my mother calls. (I thought since she is prime and unknowing (she does not read Yoke.) participant in death week that I should take her calls.). And if you don't call, I will hate you. There are no winners during Death Week 2012.
I am channeling my inner grief into bizarre craft and unnecessary home improvement projects (Mike is going to be overjoyed that I am painting the upstairs bathroom bubble gum pink). And I am finding reasons to hate each and every person I know (because they called. because they did not. because of their hair. because of their dog. because of their favorite color. because they exist.)
The thing is, Death Week 2012, is a fucking hard time (pardon my french). It sucks. My dad is dead. And tomorrow he will be dead. And the next day and for eternity he will be dead. (and yes, I believe in everlasting life with Christ. but really, that is not right here. I cannot call my old man on the phone and mock Mitt Romney.). My dad is dead.
Dead. dead. dead.
This first year post-death, I am craving casseroles, just like friends made for us postmortem. I am wearing only black and gray (and if you see me in another color it is because my belly has outgrown my wardrobe.) I am on the look out for any and all transgressions like an insane old lady staring out her window at the neighborhood children. I am wondering if all this morbidity will influence my unborn child and cause him to look like that little gothic boy on the Addams Family. I am desperately trying to be a grown up; but find that I cannot be one.
Because I just want my Daddy to tuck me into bed with a fairy tale and a good night kiss.
And he can't.