By Dixie I’m numb. I’m angry. I’m depressed. I’m afraid.
Sometimes, I wake up and forget that my Daddy died. I have a few seconds of feeling normal, then grief comes like a heavy, cold, wet coat that I have to put on every day.
Sometimes, I hear a familiar song or see a funny cartoon in the newspaper and I find myself laughing a little. I feel guilty, and quickly put the grief coat back on. As if somehow I am not honoring my Daddy by having some feeling other than negative. I know that’s not right. I know he would (and does) want me to live my life. Even if I don’t want to.
Daddy wants me to be happy. I know that. I just don’t want it yet.
I have read there are five stages of grief, no particular order, but most everyone go through at least two of them. Denial, Depression, Anger, Bargaining, Acceptance.
I remember feeling denial when the doctor came in. I was looking right at him and as soon as I heard the words “I’m so sorry, but…” I went right into denial. It could not be true because Daddy has always been in my life. There was never a time when he wasn’t. Surely the doctor was wrong. But when my family all began to burst into tears and hug each other, I went straight into acceptance. At least some acceptance that something really, really bad just happened and nothing would be the same again.
The bargaining had come an hour or so before when I got the call from my Mother and I drove to their house. It was around 6AM, very foggy out, pouring rain and completely dark and I could see the reflections of flashing red lights before I drove over the hill. I sure bargained then. Please God not today. Not today. Please let him get better. Not today, please. Please.
When I pulled into my Mama and Daddy’s yard next to the ambulance, two young firemen came up to me. I told them we had never done this before so I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I asked where my Father was and they both looked towards the ambulance. I could see someone’s arms pressing up and down. I looked back at them and one of the men simply said, “You need to take care of your Mother”.
More bargaining with God. Please not today. Let everything be OK.
But it was not OK and it still isn’t OK.
Depression is something that visits me at night, usually around 3AM.
Anger is something that bursts out at odd times. A spilled glass of wine. Anger at seeing my sweet Mama upset. She doesn’t deserve this. She deserves more years with Poppy. Don’t people live to be well into their nineties now? Why today? Why him?
Anger is something I believe God expects. I haven’t felt it towards Him-yet. He is my comfort now. But I have the feeling that it may come, unexpectedly like when I saw a yellow pound cake at Kroger and could not hold back tears. Poppy loved pound cake.
But I am not mad at God, really. The Bible said that Jesus Himself wept when Lazarus died. He wept even though he knew he was about to raise Lazarus from the dead. “Jesus wept”. It is the shortest verse in the Bible but it said everything there is to say about the death of someone you desperately love.
I am angry at death. I hate death.
But I know. I know. I know that like Lazarus, my Daddy is in a better place. He is whole, young, well and waiting.
I know. I just wish I always knew, even at 3AM.