I am not always laughing.
Since the inevitable coming out to my entire extended family, we get questions. Wedding questions. While almost everything seems to hurt, this hurt the most. How could I possibly plan a wedding without my father? It doesn’t at all seem possible for me to celebrate anything, much less an occasion where one is often “given away” by one’s father.
We plan in the smallest of ways. I think about a place. A place where I can remember him, and that truly represents us. An interracial lesbian couple, I think of a restaurant, Honey, in Philadelphia. It is a hip place that serves Jewish and African-American foods. It represents both of our families. It is the last place we were together as a family. It was the last place I saw him.
I call. They are rude. Since I live in NY, I am ok with this. They give me an email address. It doesn’t work. I call back again. They are more rude. They never respond to my email.
I’ve been taking this as a sign. Perhaps I am not meant to have a giant party celebrating myself. Perhaps this is just a small part of the punishment I feel I deserve. I know this is ridiculous. That my guilt is all a part of the natural mourning process. Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do intellectually to avoid it. I spend hours agonizing over his last birthday. I got him a present I knew he would enjoy, but wouldn’t he have enjoyed it more if I’d written him a poem? Wouldn’t he have enjoyed it more if I’d simply been there, shown up, hugged him?
There is absolutely no end for these questions. I could ask them for days and days and still have a disgusting, dark self-loathing road that I could travel down forever.
I try to celebrate his life. I know that this is what he would have wanted. I put up pictures of him making silly faces. I put up pictures of him holding me as a baby, where he looks nervous and joyous and horrified, like he is holding the world in his hands.
I settle for punishing myself/celebrating him by reading articles/poems he wrote about me when I was a brand new baby and he was a brand new stay at home dad. I spend time reminding myself that I have lost someone who loved me so much more than words will ever, ever capture.
I don’t think I’ve ever told that many people. When my grandfather died – I thought it was my fault. I had sat with him in the hospital for every day while he was there except for the two days before he died.
I knew it was silly, but sometimes I think back to that day and that thought still creeps up on me. “had I been there, it would have been different, he would still be here,” still pops into my head.