Story of Dad - Part 2

So, now, it's been a year since I wrote "Story of Dad - Part 1." A lot has happened in the last year. But, also, a lot has not happened. Perhaps this part, the real part, has proven itself difficult to get out, but I wonder still if it needs to come out. Like it's an invisible and intangible but very present plug in my throat that's preventing me from saying and expressing something important.

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Eric knocked on my bedroom door... It was our senior year in college, we lived with 3 other people in a Vegetarian Co-op we had called Figrund, a name derived from the digits of our phone number. I had painted a big sign that hung on the front porch that read, "Figrund Vegetarian Co-op." We had house meals every Wednesday, rotating who would be doing the cooking, and we'd each invite a guest to come to dinner. It was fun. He and another housemate lived downstairs, I and two other housemates live upstairs. It was a goofy house; though it had two kitchens, there wasn't much community space, so we ended up hanging out in Eric's room a lot. He had a big TV and good sound system. Plus, he was fun and often up til the late hours of the night.

There was an Undressed marathon going on at the time. Undressed was a TV show on MTV or some similar station. It really was a bad show, but we loved it. On any episode there were always three story lines going on, one taking place in high school, one in college, and one among 20-somethings. The story would follow the characters until they got "undressed," the significance of which varied a bit depending on their age. We rationalized that it was an okay show to watch because there were gay couples, unattractive couples, etc. You know, they weren't all just attractive straight couples. The producers were trying to be open-minded, or probably just trying to avoid criticism.

It was late, probably one o'clock or so in the morning, maybe even a little later, and I had gone upstairs to my room. I don't recall what I was doing. Perhaps I was wasting time on my computer, perhaps I was getting ready for bed, or perhaps I was even watching QVC or more Undressed on my little TV with the purple spot in the corner. I do have the vague sensation though of being in my bed when Eric knocked on the door so I vote for watching television. I had never had a TV in my bedroom before; it was quite a novelty.

"Dude, your uncle is on the phone." Or maybe it was, "Dude, the phone is for you. It's your uncle."

Perhaps my first thought was of surprise that my uncle was calling.

Perhaps my first thought was, "which uncle?"

Perhaps it wasn't a thought at all but a feeling that I already knew.

Except I didn't know. Thought I knew, I know, that I have a flare for the dramatic so...I might have known but had discarded it as me being dramactic. But there wasn't much time to have had many questions.

I took the portable phone from Eric. I shut the door. He presumably went downstairs. I probably said hello to my uncle. I do remember sitting down on my twin sized bed that was positioned on the floor against the far wall. I very much valued having my beds on floors in those days. It made me feel grounded.

My uncle started talking. He said some stuff about...well, I guess I don't remember. Something about my dad's health, and something had happened, and the doctors had tried this or that. It was exactly the sort of thing that you know, that you just know as soon as the person starts talking, what it is that they are trying to say. Like if you have a loved one overseas at a war and a military uniform shows up on your doorstep. You know as soon as they are there and the words start appearing out of their minds what it is that they are preparing you to hear. They are stalling, working up the nerve for themselves, or perhaps giving you some acclimation time. This is going to be bad. Are you sitting down? I'm sorry I'm about to change your life forever.

So my uncle, my dad's youngest living brother, must have said some stuff about his health and the doctors. Probably something about they did everything they could do. And I said, "so he's dead?"

"Yes."

"Okay, what does this mean? What do I do?"

I had a sense of what a hurricane must feel like in the eye of itself. Knowing pain and chaos had already happened, knowing that awful times where to come, but possessing a sense of serenity and peace that can only ever really exist in the now, but also seems to exist when one goes into shock.

"Let me put your Aunt Kathy on the phone..."

Okay.

What do I do? I should come home. Should I take the train? How long will I be gone? How much clothing should I pack? How long will I be gone for?

That was the biggest question on my mind, how much clothing, how long would I be gone?

She suggested I plan on being gone a week. This meant that I had to do laundry (though I am realizing just now that I could easily have done laundry at my mom's house), but I did have to do laundry. She had Uncle Rich were going to drive down to Urbana to pick me up after they took my family home from the hospital.

The next hours passed.

I remember I called Dave, my ex-boyfriend, but still someone I felt very close to. But he refused to come over. (Well, that cemented the extent of our friendship.)

I took two loads of laundry downstairs to the basement to do.

I emailed all of my professors emails that read something like:

"To x:

"My dad just died. I'm going to be going home for at least a week. Please let me know what I need to do to makeup the work/lectures I'm missing."

Something like that.

I remember feeling really powerful and in control. There was a clarity of mind at some points about what I had to do to get what I had to do done.

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. After I got off the phone with my uncle, I think I called Dave right away. When he refused to come over, I left my room. Ruxandra's light was on, she was presumably awake, but I didn't want to disturb her, or something, maybe I didn't want to talk to her about this. I went downstairs.

I don't remember what I said to Eric. Probably, "my dad died," or something equally direct.

I'm not sure what he said, if he said anything at all. It probably would have been weird if he had said nothing, but I know he didn't say anything stupid like, "I'm so sorry to hear that" or whatever. Maybe he said, "shit, dude." Or, "how?" or... I don't know. But I remember him being present. He didn't hug me. He didn't try to get me to talk about it. He didn't give me any advice. He was just there.

He said he was working on some thing so he'd be up anyhow, I don't know if that was true or not. Probably not. Much of the next few hours I spent sitting on his futon watching the Undressed marathon. Sometimes the phone would ring and I'd go into the dark kitchen, sit on the floor, and cry with whichever family member was on the other line.

My mother. I remember crying with her. My siblings? I forget if we spoke. I heard the story of them going to the hospital and not knowing what was happening until the elevator doors opening onto his floor and Anne seeing mom crying. And Anne collapsing in the elevator. I felt bad, guilty perhaps, that I had not been there. But also jealous that I had not been there. Angry that I was so far away when something so important to me and my family was happening.

Back in Eric's room we'd watch Undressed. That felt normal. When my laundry was done, I'd fold it. That was normal. When the phone would ring and I'd retreat into the darkened kitchen--not normal.


I guess I'm going to need a Part 3.