I realize I haven’t put up a real blog post in a week. In a way that feels like ages ago, in another way it feels like mere minutes ago. Same as always; I won’t go off on the tired old babbling about the subjective, convoluted nature of time.
So much to say but I don’t even know where to start. I’ve had trouble falling asleep all week, and many nights I’ve written ridiculously long blog posts in my head as I lay awake in the dark. I’ve also been drinking too much sweet tea over the past few days, left over from Tuesday’s delicious catering from Wife Saver; but I know my fitful sleep is attributable to far more than just extra caffeine.
If I’d had any forethought (but how could I have?) I would’ve brought my old-school paper journal with me to Chicago, meaning I’d have it here with me now, and I could be scribbling in it whenever the spirit moves. I know I’ll be doing a fair amount of that when I get home. And I also know I need to do more writing here, and it needs to come from the gut, without a filter; I guess death always makes you reassess things and realize, starkly, how short and fleeting life can be. So I need to write here for the reason I started this blog: for ME. I need to write in MY style, which admittedly others won’t always grok. But that’s okay. Because it’s not about them. And all of this has made me feel like I can do it, must do it, write for my life, without worrying about who I might piss off or what some nebulous “they” might think.
It feels weird to know that I’m going home tomorrow. It’s been over a week since I’ve been home, slept in my own bed, seen my finches, watched my Tivo, sat at my desk… it’s been over two weeks since I’ve been to work. I know getting back into the swing of things will feel good. But like I said, it also just feels weird. Everything has felt so surreal this week. I feel like things are in a state of suspended animation and I’m moving in slow motion… that’s the best way I can describe it, and even that is not totally accurate. I don’t know when I’ll come out of this state. I do know that the old truism about never knowing how a traumatic event will affect you until you’re actually dealing with it is right on.
I’ve had nightmares almost every night I’ve been here (when I’ve been able to remember my dreams at all, that is). And yet I’ve stayed in bed until late morning whenever possible, until my back hurts and my shoulders are screaming for a massage, because the lethargy is just too great to overcome. Really the only thing that forces me out of bed is having to pee.
One weird thing that’s happened while I was here: my mom’s AC literally froze. As in, the AC repair guy came out to look at it and said it had turned into a block of ice. We ran the fan for a full day in order to thaw it out (it’s back to normal now). I’d never heard of anything like that!
—
Chicago, Tuesday, July 17th, around 9:00 p.m.: phone call from my mom. I had been waiting for a call and I knew it wouldn’t be good. And I guess maybe part of me knew exactly how not good (or good, depending on how you look at it; he was suffering a lot, after all) it would be. Dacia and I were walking down Belmont looking for food. I stepped into an alleyway so I could hear my mom better. She sounded quiet and deflated, like she had been crying but wasn’t crying at that moment.
“Hi Amber. Well… Dad died.”
What could I say but, after a big gulp of air, “Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
We talked for a few more minutes. I don’t remember what all she said. I do remember he passed away at 8:20 p.m., and about six people were in the room with him at the time.
I told Dacia. We hugged. We stood there. She asked me what I wanted to do. I said, “I know it sounds bad, but I want to eat dinner.”
She rubbed my back and said, “That’s what you do when you’re alive. You eat.”
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Thanks, Dorie, for looking after our finches.
More posting to come, either really soon or not.


