I’m so sorry.
Just one this week, and all depressing. Skip it if you like; I won’t judge.
That’s the text I received from Mark, notifying me that my father was dead. I never spoke to him again after the Fathers Day call. Offspring called the hospital, demanding information, confirmation… something.
They had to get Mark’s permission to talk to him. In direct opposition to my father’s advance directive, Mark had locked down all of his information and communications so everything had to go through either him or Kenny. (He’d also misrepresented himself and Kenny as Dad’s sons, but that’s… part of a whole ‘nother issue.) The story we finally got was this: on the 28th day after Marsha’s death, Mark ordered that my father’s BiPAP be removed from his room so that he could slowly suffocate and die.
The last words my father ever spoke to me were angry, hurtful, and full of hate. His own brother, for reasons I cannot fathom, turned him against me and then killed him. I’m still dealing. I don’t even know what “healed” would look like, not from this.
Then, on the heels of all that, our precious Brindle Girl took a sharp turn for the worse. When she couldn’t manage kibble anymore I cooked for her, when she couldn’t eat on her own anymore I hand-fed her, but when she couldn’t keep down even liquids… we took her to a new vet who delivered the brutal news with kindness: she’d lost 30lbs in just over a week and our only choices were to kill her gently then or to do it cruelly over the course of days—a week at the outside.
No choice at all, really—she’d never given up on anything or anyone* but I couldn’t take her home and watch her starve to death. I kissed her and told her I’d miss her like bonkers but that I’d see her again soon.
At this point, I’m feeling personally attacked by the universe.
We’re taking a week off to travel, and then there’s the funeral planning—you’ll forgive me for not blogging that drama, I’d really rather just try to keep my head up and my claws sheathed for the sake of my own sanity—but I wanted to explain why there’ll be an abrupt absence. And why there won’t be a better resolution to these two stories.
Like I said, I’m not writing fiction here. If I was, I’d write something better than this.
* Seriously. Someday when it doesn’t hurt my heart to do it, remind me to tell you about all the stray animals she brought into our home. There was this little field mouse she “rescued” one winter…