An author I admire, whose name completely escapes me, once said "When my mother died, I couldn't read for a year."

I remember thinking: how is THAT possible? 

Let me count the ways. There's no finishing. Only fits and starts. And not feeling it. Numbing. Diverting. Outside looking in. Pushing the laundry. Far less myself in week three than week one. Being asked to do things by my ex (get your finances in order because we need to modify support—he waited 10 days after my dad passed to bring up this "sensitive" subject), my partner (be happy/do me), my kids (be there for us), judges (be on it), clients (be on it), co-workers (be on it), opposing counsel (be on it), my father's friends (be focused on your dad, his accumulating mail on the porch, his dying plants), my extended family (reach out to us), the dog (walk me, is it that much to ask?), the universe (talk to donor services for 40 minutes about his organs, tissues, eyes within two hours of his passing—including answering questions like "to your knowledge did he ever have sex with an animal?", plan a funeral, plan the post-funeral dinner party—after the first venue that was booked went out of business five days ago—plan the post-funeral dinner party again, plan a trip for six to the midwest, clean his house, his fridge—lose it for half a day when you pull their homemade salad dressing cruet out of your dishwasher for the first time—close out his accounts, explain, explain again with patience, WRITE HIS EULOGY, write the program for the service, sort and scan the pictures for the slideshow, set up the music, send out death certificates to myriad financial institutions, hold down a job, hold down two jobs, hold down three jobs not counting the unpaid job(s), buy gifts for the out-of-town hosts (sister/grateful), buy tights/winter clothes for the girls for the funeral in Illinois ... in January, cry at inopportune times. 

​Push the laundry. And be okay—really okay—with the fact that it's the only thing you're doing well right now. 

Besides not reading.  

#grieving/notgrieving

My father, whose vast reservoir of love was bottomless, died on January 5th, which was also my middle daughter's 15th birthday. I've since been traversing the grief triangle at left. 

I'm finding a sliver of solace in our last conversation. We got to say goodbye the night before he died in his sleep.

It started before I had crossed the familiar threshold that was his hospital room door. 

"Don't forget to pay my AT&T bill. They owe me a partial refund, so you'll have to do the math," he called out in my general direction.  

"I'm pretty good at math because of you, remember? I'll take care of everything," I said. He sighed, relieved. (His worries mounted so much in the end that I would  visualize lifting "worry plates" off his table. It was my job—clear the table.)

I changed the subject by reminiscing about the countless times he and his brother took my cousin, Missy, and me ice skating when we were kids on frozen Lake Ellyn in Glen Ellyn, a quaint western suburb of Chicago.

"We had fun, didn't we?" he allowed, between labored breaths—he got pneumonia while recovering from a broken hip. 

"We did, dad."

I considered adding ... "until high school," but didn't.

He was so tired, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. 

"You've taken care of so many people for so long," I whispered, willing back the tears, squeezing him back to life by grasping his hand. "Why don't you rest?"

"Would that be alright with you?" he asked, just before closing his eyes. 

"Of course." 

And it was. 

​Is. 

(n.o.t.e.a.s.y.)

Lake Ellyn, Glen Ellyn, IL