The ups and downs of this are almost too much to take. Yesterday was almost too much to take. The day started off nicely. I got up earlier than usual because I had gone to bed earlier than usual. I sat here at my computer in my little office, with the back door open to the lovely LA morning. My cat ran in and out of the door, pausing to smell the two blooming morning glories and ducking the viscious dives of hummingbirds. I wrote in my blog. I did some work. I did not pay the bills that I need to pay. I called and spoke with my Dad and then with my brother, who said that everything was fine. I went out in the hot sun driveway and washed my car by hand, pausing to run the cold water over my flipflopped feet. Then I got in my shiny clean car and drove to Orange County, sun roof open, catching up with a couple of friends on my cell phone, wearing a white tank top to show off my Mexican tan. It was nice. I was calm and I was even a little happy.

When I got to my Dad's house, it turned out that he wasn't exactly fine. He was really tired and really out of it. He kept falling asleep in mid-conversation. Eric left immediately because he had to do errands and because he hadn't left the house in three days. I sat by the edge of the mechanical bed and held my father's hand. His eyes were half open and he squeezed my hand on and off. Then he said, "I just wish that I could go to sleep and not wake up." I dug my chin into my knees and bit back the tears. He saw the tears pooling up anyway. "You have to let me go, honey. You have to." Then the tears really came, dripping down into translucent circles on my tanktop. "Honey, you have to."

And I realized that I can't. And I realized that I do have to. He closed his eyes again and started to slip into sleep. I choked out a sob and the tears ran a bit harder. There are things I need to say to him before he dies, I thought. I couldn't bear to say them though because by saying them it would mean that I was consenting. By consenting, it would mean that I was letting go. I do not want to let go. My sobs grew louder and harder as I fought back sentences that would in some way mean that it was okay for my father to die. I suddenly had a very vivid memory of being 8 years old and standing at the foot of my little canopy bed and sobbing just as I was doing now. I was wishing that my parents had never had me, wishing so hard and crying so hard that the tears ran down into the collar of my little blue Izod shirt, the one with the alligator that I loved. They had just explained to me why I could never have a brother or sister. They had explained to me that they were too old and that their bodies, at least my mother's, was incapable of producing another child. I hated them for it. I felt alone.

So I said the things I wanted to say. Dad, I want you to know that I love you so much and that I will miss you everyday of my life.

I said, barely discernable through my closing throat, If I ever do anything great in my life, it will be because of you and mom.

Why are these simple things so hard to say? Why do we feel the need to say them to someone that we know already knows them? Why does it feel different after you have said them?

He went to sleep after that and I sat, watching every breath that he took in while alternately glancing out the window to the people sunning themselves by the pool.

45 minutes later he woke up and felt much better. We watched Adaptation together and I had to explain what was going on in most of it. Two hours later he was even better and laughed with myself and Eric about how frigid his first wife, Eric's mother, had been. Three hours later I left to drive back to LA and a meeting at the magazine. Now it is almost 11 am and after I have posted this I will call him to see how he is today.
10:21:41 AM     comment []