Sleepless Nights

I've noticed here lately that the more depressed and sad I am during the day, the more chance I have of not being able to sleep at night. Yesterday, of course, was the funeral for my grandmother. The funeral was a nice service, my uncle Clyde did a wonderful job, even though I'm sure it was incredibly hard for him. There was a big turn out also; I'm sure the procession was a mile long. The graveside service was the hardest part for me because just a few feet away, my dad was laid to rest. After the service, I wandered over with Ash and Trav to the grave. There's a temporary marker in place, someone (probably my uncle Richard) has placed red and white flowers in the vase. And his name is imprinted on a label on the marker. I broke down at the grave...people telling me that he isn't there anymore, that its just his body, doesn't help me. It offers no comfort, although I suppose it should. I know daddy's in Heaven...and I know he is in no pain, isn't suffering anymore. But I'm still selfish...if he was still here, he could offer me advice and talk to me. I could've called him at midnight last night and he'd probably been up. He would've talked to me a bit and then I could've went to sleep. I sat on the couch last night, crying my eyes out, and wishing he was sitting right beside me, putting his arm around me, letting me know it would be okay. But he wasn't. I mean, Heaven is so grand, why in the world would he bother coming back down to earth to visit me. *sigh* I guess one day, I'll be able to think of him without shedding tears, without feeling like my heart is being ripped out of my chest.

Temporary Home: Carrie Underwood

This song makes me cry everytime I hear it.

Round & Round We Go

My grandmother passed away last night. She was daddy's mother, so I know they are having a big reunion in Heaven with my grandfather, who died when I was 10. It's only been a month since we buried dad and now we will have to bury his mom. But...I'm glad daddy went before her, because if he'd have had to bury her, it would've killed him for sure. And that's the way he wanted it...to die before his mom. So I guess it worked out.

Of course, this just means, another visitation, another funeral, another loss. How much can we stand? I wasn't that close to my grandmother, but the loss hurts just the same...and is compounded by the fact that I'm still nowhere near dealing with dad's death. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to go completely crazy and lose it. And then other times, I feel half-way normal.

This morning, I thought I saw dad in the car in front of me. This guy's hair was the same color, same consistancy, everything...

I guess 'normal' has been redefined for me now.

Am I Moving On?

Ever since I can remember, I've buried things deep down so I don't have to deal with them. So, I don't know how I will ever know if I'm actually dealing with this loss or if I am just burying and let it come out in short spurts. Cos I do cry, I do get angry. But I'm also still in shock. I guess I'll never know until a while down the road. Ugh.

Anger

I felt angry way before he died, but it was primarily directed at God. Yes I know that daddy smoked. And I know that if he hadn't, then more than likely he wouldn't have gotten sick. But I also know that if God had chosen, He could've healed my daddy and made him well again. I mean, he had enough people praying for him. And I felt like God just chose to ignore my pleas, along with everyone elses. And I thought of all the evil, evil people there are today and how it'd be more fair that one of THEM die instead of my dad. I've been so angry at God that I'd even started wondering if there even was a Heaven or Hell. I mean, my own personal hell was here on Earth-a life without my dad. Dad knew that I was angry at God and he even went as far as to tell me to be angry with HIM because of the choices he'd made. Little did he know that I would eventually end up angry with him for abandoning me, leaving me too soon. And then I get angry at other people...mad because they have their fathers and take them for granted, mad because I'm not allowed to grieve by laying in the bed all day everyday, mad because no one can take this immense sadness from me. And then I get irritable and get mad over dumb silly things because the anger is always just beneath the surface wanting to spill over into all facets of my life. I snap at people, say things I don't mean just to be mean, and just generally hate. I feel slighted at the hand that was dealt to me...it isn't fair...and that in itself makes me so angry, I want to scream. But I don't. I lock the anger up with all the other emotions that I'm feeling so I won't make a fool out of myself by, gasp, crying at inappropriate times. I think most people just want me to get over it and be back to normal. And for the most part, I try. But sometimes, you know, I'd like to be allowed to get angry, to scream, to yell, to cry, to question God.

Dreams

I guess I should've known I'd still be seeing dad in dreams. I mean, I think about him constantly...but I didn't think he'd be telling me to ground Ashleigh for something that actually happened or that I'd dream he came back alive after being dead. It's quite possible that my subconscious mind is helping me out, trying to make me feel better. (Although I really think daddy wants me to ground Ashleigh...I mean, he did tell me to). Anyways-it'll be three weeks tomorrow since he's died and I think I'm doing okay. Of course, I'm doing okay TODAY. Yesterday was okay, the day before? Notsomuch. But I guess it comes in waves, ups and downs, which is what I hadn't expected. I just assumed that I'd be sad for a few months and then would wake up one day and be fine. Not happening. But when does life go the way you want it anyway?

The Death Itself

Dad had been suffering from with COPD and Emphysema for over five years. When he was initially diagnosed, he was only given five years, so he lived longer than was expected. Which, to those who knew him, knew that wasn't strange---he had told us that he'd fight it until the end. And he did. The Monday after Thanksgiving, he was admitted into the Hospice House for pain management. He never came home. The week before he died, we were told over and over that this would be it, that this day he'd die, etc. Of course, no one knows but God, but I for one had a hard time accepting the fact that no human could tell me when my dad would die. Tuesday the 15th of December, mom called me at work and told me to come to the HH...dad was asking for me. I left immediately and went in. He wanted to tell me goodbye, to tell me he loved me, and to tell me that he wanted me to take care of mom. And I cried, we all did. And it was downhill from there. Thursday, the 17th, I came into work feeling the urge that I needed to be at HH with dad. And so I left, spending the day there and most of the night. At one point, the staff thought dad's death was imminent and so mom, my brother, and I were in the room with him. Mom and I told daddy that it was okay, that we loved him, that it was okay to leave us. Paul and I left HH at 4 am on Friday and went home to sleep. It snowed that day so we didn't make it back down to HH but mom kept me as informed as she could (the same ole stuff we'd heard time and again). Early Saturday morning (Dec 19) was when we got the call...it was around 6:30am when the phone rang and although Paul answered it, I knew what it was...and I could make out what mom was saying. He'd passed away. Mom had been the courageous soldier, sending everyone home that night and she was there by herself. She'd left the room to get some coffee and toast and when she came back, he wasn't breathing anymore. To be expecting this for so long, it is still such a shock that he really isn't here anymore. I couldn't call him and tell him about my speeding ticket and hear a lecture about how I should know better. I couldn't feel his hugs anymore or hear him tell me he loves me. There are so many things I miss about him, but I miss his advice the most. He would give the greatest advice, trying to be impartial and considering all the angles, and he would tell you what he thought, regardless of what you wanted to hear. He'd be honest...and he'd tell you if he thought you were making a mistake. But he also never failed to let me know how proud he was of me and how he thought I was a good mother. I don't know when I'll ever feel normal and found, instead of abnormal and lost, but I'm sure I'll get there someday. Until then...I will post in this blog. Hopefully, it will be therapeutic.