I've always known how I planned to eulogize my father. "He was an imperfect man," I'd begin, and then I'd segue into a movingly bittersweet tribute to him. In my head, it was going to be meaningful and noble, the kind of thing that would leave people with deep philosophical thoughts about life and death. (Embarrassingly and selfishly enough, I also figured that I'd move through the speech tearlessly while switching on the waterworks in the crowd.)
Except that's not how it happened. Dad always disliked funerals, even "accidentally" showing up late to meet me and my mother before my grandfather's service. (That was one of the few times when I gave him hell.) So it made sense that he'd left instructions to forgo all the clad-in-black depressing stuff. Instead, he wanted us to have a party to celebrate his life. That was the kind of man he was, usually joking and smiling and looking at the bright side. It's not that he was without his flaws — he could be unintentionally self-centered, he wasn't the most industrious guy, he used to drink too much — but when I think of him, I don't focus on that mess. I remember the best about him.
People keep asking how I'm doing. Up and down, I say. It changes hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute. The whole Kubler-Ross thing is accurate to an extent, but it's happening as a jumble rather than a sequential progression. One minute I'm sobbing, the next I'm laughing, the next I'm numb. Softness, ache, then nothingness. The worst moments accompany the realization that he's never coming back. I mean, I know he's gone, but dying seems like something he had to cross off on a to-do list. I'm not yet used to the new, lonelier reality. When I force myself to think about that, to realize that I'll never see him laugh again, I crumple. I always suspected this would be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. It is.
Except that's not how it happened. Dad always disliked funerals, even "accidentally" showing up late to meet me and my mother before my grandfather's service. (That was one of the few times when I gave him hell.) So it made sense that he'd left instructions to forgo all the clad-in-black depressing stuff. Instead, he wanted us to have a party to celebrate his life. That was the kind of man he was, usually joking and smiling and looking at the bright side. It's not that he was without his flaws — he could be unintentionally self-centered, he wasn't the most industrious guy, he used to drink too much — but when I think of him, I don't focus on that mess. I remember the best about him.
People keep asking how I'm doing. Up and down, I say. It changes hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute. The whole Kubler-Ross thing is accurate to an extent, but it's happening as a jumble rather than a sequential progression. One minute I'm sobbing, the next I'm laughing, the next I'm numb. Softness, ache, then nothingness. The worst moments accompany the realization that he's never coming back. I mean, I know he's gone, but dying seems like something he had to cross off on a to-do list. I'm not yet used to the new, lonelier reality. When I force myself to think about that, to realize that I'll never see him laugh again, I crumple. I always suspected this would be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. It is.
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