My father died a month ago.
I feel like this is all I've talked or written about since the sobbing, panicked phone call I received that night in August, and yet I haven't even scratched the surface of words and loss roiling inside my chest.
I'm not the first person to lose a parent. I'm not even the first of my friends to lose a parent suddenly and without warning. What could I say that would have any value, thrown out into the void of the internet?
I can't talk about what kind of person he was. I can't talk about what he meant to me. I'm not there yet. One day, maybe, I'll be able to look back and smile and talk about his influence, but for now the pain is too sharp, and I'm not brave enough.
But this much, at least, this much I can say: I never thought I was immortal, but I was never so paralyzed by human mortality as I am now. Sitting in the theater with dear friends, I hold my partner's hand and think about his funeral. I find myself cataloging the joys and habits my mother passed to me, wondering what will hurt me once she's gone. And in this era of hate crimes and irrational wars, I think about how few "one days" I have left. I'm mourning my father, and I'm trying and failing not to mourn everyone else I love and care about, myself included. My world hasn't ended, but it feels very much as though it has.
I can't live every day as though it's my last. If I thought this was my last night alive, I wouldn't be typing this. I wouldn't be logging on to work later tonight to finish up some tasks. I wouldn't bother exercising muscles that would go slack tomorrow. I would write, yes, but I wouldn't write stories. I would write about who I am and what I've lived through, I would write love letters to everyone who's ever cared about me. I would talk about my father, and how he told me to leave a legacy, and how there was no way I could ever leave one worthwhile enough. How I always knew I would die unfinished and unsatisfied, but that I thought I might have gotten a bit farther than I had. I would spill words onto the screen in a scarcely translated litany of "Remember me, remember me, KNOW me. Please." and it wouldn't be enough. I can't live every day as though it were my last because I'd spend every day writing my epitaph.
At this point, I see three paths forward, and every day I choose a different one. The wounded animal in me wants to mourn and cry and drink and sleep and reach out to touch my loved ones to convince myself that they're still there. And some days that's all I have energy for. To live with a minimum of pain. But I have responsibilities, and they have me dragging myself up and out to take care of my job, my house, my people. I package my pain and feelings up for as long as I can and take care of the mundanities of life. I could follow this second path forever, but then on the day death surprises me I wouldn't feel any more ready for it than I do now. The third path is to forget the possibility of death, but still celebrate life, and to rearrange my life in a way that builds the legacy I desire. My panicked mortality tells me that I need to do the last. It scrabbles and scratches and insists that every day spent at work and every evening spent mourning is my final wasted chance to live a worthwhile life. Yesterday I might have survived. Today I am doomed. And then my wounded animal heart shies away from these admonishments and begs another few hours to forget.
Everyone says it will get better. And I believe them. But I don't know how long I'll have for the grief to soften and the panic to fade. I don't know if I'll be allowed to forget how fragile we all are. And so on some days, I give myself the space to rest and heal and mourn, and on some days I put one foot in front of the other and take care of the boring but necessary tasks that keep my world turning. I've yet to find the strength to spend a day on the third path, but I've been spending moments and plans, carving out time from my future while hoping I make it long enough to reach those hours.
I wanted to publish something by the time I was 35, because I wanted to make sure my father was around to see the success of that goal. I wanted him to tell me that he was proud of me, and that I'd accomplished something worthwhile. I'm turning 30 in the spring. It wasn't soon enough.
It will never be enough, but I need to make sure it's something.
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