Diary
Page Fourteen
My dad died last night.
He had been in the hospital for the pass week. It was his brain. And it gave up. He died on July 2nd, 2007 at 4:37 am. I was in my bed.
I was selfishly asleep while my father was fighting the Grim Reaper.
It hasn’t hit me yet, but Roxy won’t stop crying. She doesn’t understand, and I don’t know how to make her understand.
Do you remember when Jim Henson died? They tried to explain it to Big Bird on Sesame Street, but Big Bird never fully understood until the end? I was 11 or 12 when that episode aired. I remember the memorial, on TV, so well. I cried like a baby when Big Bird sang.
I can’t even cry for my own father.
Maybe I had been expecting it?
No, I hadn’t.
I expect him to be sitting beside me, right now, on the couch, telling me about this weird shape he saw in the clouds today. I expect him to dance around with Roxy and sing songs with her. I expect him to have random spurts of being fine, being without the tumor. I expect him to hug me goodbye when I leave for work. I expect him to be here.
Just for the record, my father really liked you. When he met you, he said that you were the perfect match for me. He said that we were like pixie dust and Never Never Land. We went together.
My father was always great for a Peter Pan reference.
When Roxy was born, he said Wendy and Peter had their own Tinkerbell. You were there, you laughed, you smiled, you cared. It was back when we were happy.
When nothing hurt. Nothing was trouble. Nothing was hard. Nothing stood in the way of our dreams.
He told me, after you left, that he didn’t understand that you just “left”. My father had said, Husbands don’t just leave their wives and children. He asked what was so important. Why did you leave.
I answered simply: “He needed to get away.”
My father, tumor or not, cleverly answered: “He should visit this,” he tapped his temple lightly with his liver spotted hand, “it’s magical in here. I can get away whenever I want, and I don’t have to pack a bag!”
I never dreamt he’d actually getaway.
He had been in the hospital for the pass week. It was his brain. And it gave up. He died on July 2nd, 2007 at 4:37 am. I was in my bed.
I was selfishly asleep while my father was fighting the Grim Reaper.
It hasn’t hit me yet, but Roxy won’t stop crying. She doesn’t understand, and I don’t know how to make her understand.
Do you remember when Jim Henson died? They tried to explain it to Big Bird on Sesame Street, but Big Bird never fully understood until the end? I was 11 or 12 when that episode aired. I remember the memorial, on TV, so well. I cried like a baby when Big Bird sang.
I can’t even cry for my own father.
Maybe I had been expecting it?
No, I hadn’t.
I expect him to be sitting beside me, right now, on the couch, telling me about this weird shape he saw in the clouds today. I expect him to dance around with Roxy and sing songs with her. I expect him to have random spurts of being fine, being without the tumor. I expect him to hug me goodbye when I leave for work. I expect him to be here.
Just for the record, my father really liked you. When he met you, he said that you were the perfect match for me. He said that we were like pixie dust and Never Never Land. We went together.
My father was always great for a Peter Pan reference.
When Roxy was born, he said Wendy and Peter had their own Tinkerbell. You were there, you laughed, you smiled, you cared. It was back when we were happy.
When nothing hurt. Nothing was trouble. Nothing was hard. Nothing stood in the way of our dreams.
He told me, after you left, that he didn’t understand that you just “left”. My father had said, Husbands don’t just leave their wives and children. He asked what was so important. Why did you leave.
I answered simply: “He needed to get away.”
My father, tumor or not, cleverly answered: “He should visit this,” he tapped his temple lightly with his liver spotted hand, “it’s magical in here. I can get away whenever I want, and I don’t have to pack a bag!”
I never dreamt he’d actually getaway.
♠ ♠ ♠
I posted twice today because I reread this chapter, and it really reminded me of when my dad died. I was like 14 when he passed, and he was the main person in my life to get me into great alternative music. My dad bought plane tickets and bribed this club bouncer into letting me see Midtown in New Jersey, I was like 12, mind you. And because of him I got to see Midtown before they broke up. He made me a massive Midtown fan, and also a Disney movie fan. Anyway, this chapter is sort of dedicated to him, I miss him everyday.I'm sorry I got personal on you, but I really thought of my own father's death when I wrote this.