After
Next week marks the 20th anniversary of my dad's death. Twenty years. I was only ten years old when he passed away but the effects of his death still remain to this day.
For a long time, my dad dying was the biggest event of my life. The defining event of my life. I started classifying my life into two time periods, Before and After. Before my dad died, I lived in a house with my parents, brother, and sister and walked to elementary school. After my dad died, I lived somewhere new, still with my mom and brother and sister, but without my dad. I didn't walk to elementary school; I rode a bus. These are stupid, useless details, and yet in my young mind, they were important.
"I'm afraid we are going to run out of money," I blurted out to the school counselor just after my dad died and she called me in. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I immediately thought. Money? Your daddy died, and you are seriously going to worry about money?
The counselor was surprised, but her brow furrowed, and she gently told me that she was sure my mom was taking care of everything and we wouldn't have to worry about that. It was going to be fine. I nodded, because there was a giant knot in my throat, and I just wanted her to go away.
I didn't care about money. I cared that my Daddy was gone and now things were never going to be the same. My brother would prattle on for hours, about the cemetery, where Daddy was, how he got sick and then died. He discussed these things with a matter-of-fact tone and his young, bright voice was grating to my ears. Tears would spring to my eyes and I'd look out the car window, wishing he would just be quiet. Just. Be. Quiet.
I remember at my dad's funeral, how sad my mom was. She was sobbing during the service. They had to drag her away from my dad's open casket. This memory, this image, is burned into my brain. I cannot forget. I felt so helpless and I wanted my mom to stop crying. I wanted her to be okay. I looked around the room and felt uncomfortable. People were staring.
For years after my dad died, I would take whatever measures necessary to make sure that my school friends did not find out about my dad. Nobody in middle school wants to have that conversation, about life and death; I avoided it at all costs. If a kid started asking questions, my palms would become sweaty and my face would turn red. Don't ask, I pleaded silently. Please, please, don't ask. I don't want to tell you. Don't make me explain. I wished desperately for a time when saying what happened, saying "my dad died," out loud, did not cause me instant sadness.
Twenty years later. After my dad died. And I'm still not sure how I'm supposed to answer this question, and not feel instant sadness.
For a long time, my dad dying was the biggest event of my life. The defining event of my life. I started classifying my life into two time periods, Before and After. Before my dad died, I lived in a house with my parents, brother, and sister and walked to elementary school. After my dad died, I lived somewhere new, still with my mom and brother and sister, but without my dad. I didn't walk to elementary school; I rode a bus. These are stupid, useless details, and yet in my young mind, they were important.
"I'm afraid we are going to run out of money," I blurted out to the school counselor just after my dad died and she called me in. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I immediately thought. Money? Your daddy died, and you are seriously going to worry about money?
The counselor was surprised, but her brow furrowed, and she gently told me that she was sure my mom was taking care of everything and we wouldn't have to worry about that. It was going to be fine. I nodded, because there was a giant knot in my throat, and I just wanted her to go away.
I didn't care about money. I cared that my Daddy was gone and now things were never going to be the same. My brother would prattle on for hours, about the cemetery, where Daddy was, how he got sick and then died. He discussed these things with a matter-of-fact tone and his young, bright voice was grating to my ears. Tears would spring to my eyes and I'd look out the car window, wishing he would just be quiet. Just. Be. Quiet.
I remember at my dad's funeral, how sad my mom was. She was sobbing during the service. They had to drag her away from my dad's open casket. This memory, this image, is burned into my brain. I cannot forget. I felt so helpless and I wanted my mom to stop crying. I wanted her to be okay. I looked around the room and felt uncomfortable. People were staring.
For years after my dad died, I would take whatever measures necessary to make sure that my school friends did not find out about my dad. Nobody in middle school wants to have that conversation, about life and death; I avoided it at all costs. If a kid started asking questions, my palms would become sweaty and my face would turn red. Don't ask, I pleaded silently. Please, please, don't ask. I don't want to tell you. Don't make me explain. I wished desperately for a time when saying what happened, saying "my dad died," out loud, did not cause me instant sadness.
Twenty years later. After my dad died. And I'm still not sure how I'm supposed to answer this question, and not feel instant sadness.
posted by Julia | 8:42 PM
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