The days since last Friday feel, collectively, like months. They also feel like one immense monolith of a single day that afforded no reprieve. They also feel like the Twilight Zone. An alternate reality.
I opened my planner for the first time today, having not even thought of it since early last Friday morning, and I barely recognized the plans I had sketched out for that weekend or these past few days. I see that midday on August 14th I had planned to spend a few hours in Noble, making good on a birthday promise to Jess, to help her prepare her beautiful garden for fall. I did that, and it was wonderful in so many ways. Then I remember that early that evening Handsome and I ate our favorite pizza with a decent movie. As soon as we finished the movie, an hour before sunset, everything changed forever.
It is a wild understatement to say I am grateful. Grateful and thankful, unworthy, happy, appreciative, and very aware of how lucky I am, how lucky we all are, is just so obvious it feels silly to say. But it’s true. What incredible, unparalleled good fortune to have such deep and excruciating grief, because it is the inevitable result of deep love, and to navigate it with so many precious people in this rare, harmonious dance is a gift. I know that.
My four younger siblings and our three spouses, the eight of us, have pulled together around Mom in a beautiful way. Eight grandchildren are also in this loving mix, every single person bringing their unique proclivities to the group effort, desperate to meet whatever needs we can locate. And extended family is in this concentric orbit around our group, churning in their own grief as they extend love to us. Friends, too. Irreplaceable friends. Mom and Dad’s friends. Old childhood friends. Dad’s colleagues. Our own colleagues. Strangers reaching out to say they knew Dad or remember him. Everyone liked him, respected him. Not Dad to them, but Joe.
Joe Dunaway. His name feels like sawdust and bluejeans to me. His name feels like I will never be able to enjoy Stephen King or James Bond or Star Trek or a million other things again, and I will never be able to get a hug with his whiskers on my cheek when he kisses me goodbye.
As ridiculous and irrational as this sounds, I did not actually think he would ever die. Not really. There has never been a reason to see him as vulnerable. Even when he was sick with the flu or in surgery from falling off a ladder, for example, he bounced back so easily. He has always been not just unstoppable but also uncatchable. His life force was unreal.
His sudden goneness, this shocking void, hurts more than I would ever have predicted, but the peripheral experiences are also better, more soothing than I thought was possible. The depth of both emotions is nearly equal. What a miracle.
In the next few days, I will share Dad’s obituary, an extended version, more than what appeared in the newspaper. And I will share the incredible eulogy our little brother wrote for Dad and delivered so well. There is still so much to do and so much change coming. Today I am raw and exhausted. I feel this need to rest but also want be with my siblings as much as possible, while we are all in town and off work.
I just want my Dad back.
It says so much about the man for his child to so profoundly love him and miss his presence.