The morning of the funeral, I slipped on black pants and a black turtleneck and prepared myself for what I knew was going to be a pretty difficult day. I kept my mind on the light at the end of the tunnel - plans for that evening.
My dad had been a guy who liked to party - that was pretty much his favorite thing (and what led to his early demise, along with a lack of health care - something I might get into at a later date). So I had no intentions of cancelling my NYE plans - he wouldn't have liked that. Mayur, my best guy friend, Caleb, his wife, Veronica, and I had tickets for a concert that night. The funeral was early in the day, so I'd have plenty of time to get back into town for the show.
A lot of friends and family were organized at my grandmother's house, including my mom's childhood best friend, Jane, who is more like a sister to her. She'd known my dad all her life too. I made the decision that I wanted to ride to the funeral with Jane and Jane alone, because I knew she would keep my spirits up. She's a strange and hilarious woman.
We made the half hour drive to the cemetery. Since my dad wasn't religious, we decided to just do a graveside memorial. Given that it was freezing cold, and December 31, I was shocked by how many people had showed up. I was touched. Everyone consoled me, and I remained strong - not shedding a single tear. Maybe the nicest part of the day for me was when my Army of Hot Women, as I jokingly called them, showed up. Melissa, Brian, and a few of our other girlfriends made the long drive into the country, as did one of my dearest friends from work. It meant a lot to me, having them there. As I delivered the eulogy, I think I looked at Melissa the whole time. Seeing her gave me strength. Having my people there, our little surrogate family or urban tribe or whatever you want to call it, made me feel less afraid and not as sad.
I grew livid when my stepmother had the preacher from her nutso evangelical church stand up and speak. The man didn't know my father, and when, six months after the funeral, my dad's best friend let us know that she was, in fact, marrying this guy, I nearly vomited. When I told Mayur about the marriage, the first thing he asked me was, "they did a full autopsy on your dad, right?"
It was hard seeing his body there in the casket. It was hard touching his cold hands and telling him goodbye. Seeing him there it was like he wasn't really gone. But he was.
I have the strangest picture. See, about 40 years prior to this day, my mother, as a little girl, along with her parents, stood a few feet from the very spot where my father's casket would soon be placed into the ground, surrounded by family as my great-grandmother was laid to rest next to her husband, who had only died a few months earlier. Someone took a picture of their headstone there, other graves around it, but an empty plot directly behind it. Somehow I ended up with this photo, and a couple of years after my dad's death, I came across it as I was sorting through a box of old photos and mementos in preparation for a move. I knew, of course, that my father was buried right next to my maternal great-grandparents, but seeing this photo just - well, it spooked me a bit, I guess. That day the exact location of the burial had spooked my mom and grandma too - it was a little crazy to us how of all the spots of dirt on this earth, that my stepmother's first husband had purchased this lot, and had given it to us so we didn't have to figure out where we would bury him (plus, grave sites are also expensive! Amazing how much profit there is in the death industry...).
Of all places! This land was in a county that my mother's family had first helped settle way back around the time of the Civil War. Half my ancestors and relatives from the past five generations were buried there. It felt like everything - my life, anyway - was sort of coming full circle in a way, with my dad being buried there amongst my maternal ancestors.
--
After the funeral, I made the rounds to both quasi-wakes being held in honor of my dad. I really just wanted to get out of that town, though. Nobody was really messing with me - I was under no obligation to do anything anyone else wanted, because it was my father who had died, and, fortunately for me, everyone in my family left me alone to grieve in whatever way I chose.
So I chose to stand in the freezing cold outside a legendary Texas dance hall with my Indian boyfriend, my best friend from college, and his South American wife. This couple knows me inside and out, and knew that the best thing for me that night was not to be coddled, not to be handled with kid gloves and treated like someone in mourning. I needed beer, I needed loud music, and I needed a good time.
In spite of the sad cloud over the day, in spite of the ridiculously long lines for beer, in spite of me accidentally throwing both my ID and credit card away in the ladies' room, we had a great time. We kissed at midnight and screamed along with the songs. At least for that evening, we were all happy. We had fun. I wish we could have bottled it and saved it, the way we felt that night.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a Funeral Part 4
I'd had some medical tests done a few weeks before Christmas, and my doctor was calling to tell me that she wasn't happy with the results. Wanted me to see a specialist. Wanted me to see the specialist right away. I stopped her, and told her I couldn't hear this, that I was literally standing in my shoes, about to walk out the door to meet with the funeral director to choose my father's casket and plan his service.
She felt awful - I could hear it in her voice. This doctor and I were close as far as patient-doctor relationships go. I had been under her care for nearly a decade, and she knew me pretty well. She told me she'd have her nurse set up the appointment with the specialist for me, and that she was sorry about my dad. I promised I'd call her after I met with the other doctor, and we'd figure out what to do next.
We hung up, I got myself together, said goodbye to Mayur, and walked down the three flights of stairs to meet my mother, who was waiting outside. I definitely didn't plan to tell her about the call from my doctor. Seeing as how we were going to deal with things related to my father's death, my tears didn't exactly raise any red flags in her mind.
As we traveled the highways and back roads to the tiny town, population around 3,000, where my father would be buried, we talked about him. My mom still truly loved him as a friend, and while she had quite a few bad memories and horrible experiences with him, she was able to focus on the positive ones that day. She'd always done a great job of protecting me from the darkest truths about the man who had made her a mother; I think she loves me so much that no matter what ills he did to her (or even to me) she could look past it and just appreciate the fact that in that space and time they'd been together, I was created, and by some great miracle I inherited only the better parts of him.
We arrived at the funeral home and met a large group of women. I swear, the men in my family just can't stay long in this world. Every single relative there was female. After a few minutes, the funeral director ushered me, along with my father's mother and his widow, into a private room and closed the door.
My main concern was the obituary. I'm a journalist by education and an editor by trade, so I would not stand for a second-rate, error-filled piece about my deceased parent. I guess in the moment I felt like that was at least one thing I could control. To this day, if you Google my full name, that obituary is the first thing that comes up. Crazy.
Choosing the casket was hard. In this way I envy my Hindu family and friends. My mother and I both always told each other if we died we'd want to be cremated, because the idea of being put in a box, sealed up and placed six feet under with dirt piled all around just doesn't sound good or right to us. I find the Hindu death traditions (what little I do know about them) to be quite lovely and more spiritual in most cases than a burial ritual.
Funerals are also expensive. We shared the cost between us - mother, widow, and child. My stepmother wanted this chapter completely closed before the new year, so we agreed to hold the service on December 31, four days later, giving the Medical Examiner sufficient time to do the autopsy and me sufficient time to have medical examinations of my own with the specialist my doctor had selected for me.
The days leading up to the funeral are a bit of a blur now. I saw the specialist, who performed more tests and said he'd call me after the first of the year with the results. I spent a lot of time with Mayur and the neighbors.
The day before the funeral, my mom, stepdad, and I headed back out to my grandmother's house. We held the visitation/viewing - I kept it together fine until two of my coworkers walked in the room. It was the first time I'd really cried in a few days, and as I stood there, both of them holding me as I sobbed (and when I looked at the flowers, and saw that the biggest arrangement sent had been from my office team) I realized again how fortunate I was to work with these people.
I stayed up most of the night writing the eulogy, unable to find the words until then. I scribbled them in pencil, words leaking into the margins of the tiny yellow legal pad that was the only paper I could find in the house.
Late into the night I called Mayur, speaking quietly from one of the open bedrooms in my grandmother's house. (I would learn years later why he liked her place so much - reminded him of his family's homes in India where a sleeping room didn't necessarily mean a room with a locked door.) We'd decided it would be better if he didn't come with me - I didn't want to have to deal with introducing a new boyfriend - and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure how some of my more...well, less open minded relatives were going to handle my interracial relationship. One of my cousins had a baby with a guy from another culture/country during high school, and I remember some not-so-nice comments on that subject. I just didn't want to have to face giving my father's eulogy and defending my personal relationship choices on the same day.
She felt awful - I could hear it in her voice. This doctor and I were close as far as patient-doctor relationships go. I had been under her care for nearly a decade, and she knew me pretty well. She told me she'd have her nurse set up the appointment with the specialist for me, and that she was sorry about my dad. I promised I'd call her after I met with the other doctor, and we'd figure out what to do next.
We hung up, I got myself together, said goodbye to Mayur, and walked down the three flights of stairs to meet my mother, who was waiting outside. I definitely didn't plan to tell her about the call from my doctor. Seeing as how we were going to deal with things related to my father's death, my tears didn't exactly raise any red flags in her mind.
As we traveled the highways and back roads to the tiny town, population around 3,000, where my father would be buried, we talked about him. My mom still truly loved him as a friend, and while she had quite a few bad memories and horrible experiences with him, she was able to focus on the positive ones that day. She'd always done a great job of protecting me from the darkest truths about the man who had made her a mother; I think she loves me so much that no matter what ills he did to her (or even to me) she could look past it and just appreciate the fact that in that space and time they'd been together, I was created, and by some great miracle I inherited only the better parts of him.
We arrived at the funeral home and met a large group of women. I swear, the men in my family just can't stay long in this world. Every single relative there was female. After a few minutes, the funeral director ushered me, along with my father's mother and his widow, into a private room and closed the door.
My main concern was the obituary. I'm a journalist by education and an editor by trade, so I would not stand for a second-rate, error-filled piece about my deceased parent. I guess in the moment I felt like that was at least one thing I could control. To this day, if you Google my full name, that obituary is the first thing that comes up. Crazy.
Choosing the casket was hard. In this way I envy my Hindu family and friends. My mother and I both always told each other if we died we'd want to be cremated, because the idea of being put in a box, sealed up and placed six feet under with dirt piled all around just doesn't sound good or right to us. I find the Hindu death traditions (what little I do know about them) to be quite lovely and more spiritual in most cases than a burial ritual.
Funerals are also expensive. We shared the cost between us - mother, widow, and child. My stepmother wanted this chapter completely closed before the new year, so we agreed to hold the service on December 31, four days later, giving the Medical Examiner sufficient time to do the autopsy and me sufficient time to have medical examinations of my own with the specialist my doctor had selected for me.
The days leading up to the funeral are a bit of a blur now. I saw the specialist, who performed more tests and said he'd call me after the first of the year with the results. I spent a lot of time with Mayur and the neighbors.
The day before the funeral, my mom, stepdad, and I headed back out to my grandmother's house. We held the visitation/viewing - I kept it together fine until two of my coworkers walked in the room. It was the first time I'd really cried in a few days, and as I stood there, both of them holding me as I sobbed (and when I looked at the flowers, and saw that the biggest arrangement sent had been from my office team) I realized again how fortunate I was to work with these people.
I stayed up most of the night writing the eulogy, unable to find the words until then. I scribbled them in pencil, words leaking into the margins of the tiny yellow legal pad that was the only paper I could find in the house.
Late into the night I called Mayur, speaking quietly from one of the open bedrooms in my grandmother's house. (I would learn years later why he liked her place so much - reminded him of his family's homes in India where a sleeping room didn't necessarily mean a room with a locked door.) We'd decided it would be better if he didn't come with me - I didn't want to have to deal with introducing a new boyfriend - and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure how some of my more...well, less open minded relatives were going to handle my interracial relationship. One of my cousins had a baby with a guy from another culture/country during high school, and I remember some not-so-nice comments on that subject. I just didn't want to have to face giving my father's eulogy and defending my personal relationship choices on the same day.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a Funeral Part 3
"What do you mean, gone?" I said.
She looked at me with such pain in her eyes, and over the course of a few minutes that are a bit hazy to me now after nearly four years, explained to me that my daddy, on Christmas night, fell asleep on the sofa in his livingroom. The next morning, just a few short hours later, he was dead.
His wife had found him there on the couch, at first thinking he was asleep. I still don't know really what happened that morning. I know she called both my grandmothers right away (a long story, but my dad and my grandmother - his ex-mother-in-law - were best friends from before the time my parents married until the day my dad died. This is a story for another day, though). My grandmother called my mommy, and it was decided that I needed to be told in person, that I shouldn't be alone when I found out that my dad was dead at the age of 53 years old. A month after his birthday, and on Christmas of all days.
I hate to think of him lying there, dying alone. Probably watching the Discovery Channel, probably sleeping in the livingroom because his marriage was a disaster. I found out later he'd had a big fight with his mother and sisters on Christmas Day, that his mother had said some cruel words and they parted angrily. Other than things turning brighter with me, most areas of his life were not really good. I guess his heart was past broken, his body worn down from years of manual labor and abuse of many things that he probably used to kill the pain of losing his own father at age 12, being divorced and separated from his only child by the time he was 27, losing his successful business by 30...he lived a hard life. But it was over that cold December night. He was at rest.
This was the first time I'd really lost anyone this close to me. An immediate family member; someone who shared my DNA. I didn't really know how to react. I just crumbled into my mother and stepfather's arms and cried for a while.
I am the type of person who needs to take action in crisis situations, though, and so the first person I called upon learning of my father's death was my boss. He is a kind man, and more of a brother or friend to me now than just a superior at work; his kindness to me in that moment is something I'll never forget. I took my phone onto the balcony of my apartment and called his number. I told him what happened and asked him to let everyone else from our close-knit work team know, and to tell my friends at work that I'd call them when I was feeling more up to it.
The next phone call I made was to Mayur. I can't explain why, but I felt I needed him at that moment. I just wanted my mother and stepdad to leave. I know it sounds cruel, but I think in some part of my mind I knew my mom was hurting maybe even more than I was (she and my dad had been friends since childhood, had gone through losing their own fathers together, and shared a child - me), and I didn't want her to have to be strong for both of us.
He answered my call to his mobile phone, sort of surprised because I never called him during the work day. As soon as he answered, I just said, "Mayur, my mommy and stepdad are here and they've just come to tell me my daddy died...my daddy is dead...can you please come over here?" He said he'd be there in five minutes and he kept that promise.
This was the first time he met anyone from my family. It was a little awkward, but I guess my mom knew how much this guy already meant to me by this time, and felt ok leaving me with him. He told her he wouldn't leave my side and that he would make sure I was ok. He took her phone number and said he'd call if I needed him to.
My parents left and I again collapsed and cried. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I was dirty, in shock, and a mess. I told Mayur I wanted to take a shower and that I would be back out in a little while. He made sure I would be ok, that I wouldn't pass out or anything, and I went into the bathroom and cried into the hot water some more. I finally calmed down, got out of the shower, dressed, and took a deep breath.
I walked out of my bathroom to find Mayur, Dinesh, and Manjari sitting silently on the couch. Mayur looked at me and said, "In India when someone dies we all come together. So they are here now with you. We are all here with you."
My neighbors, who after this would surely be my friends...offered their condolences and sat with me. After some time everyone decided that I needed to eat. By this time it was later in the day and I had not eaten since the day prior. We loaded into Dinesh's car and headed to an Indian restaurant with the pinkest walls I think I've ever seen. It felt so surreal, sitting, drinking coffee, eating dosas, and holding back from telling the waiter, "Well, my father died about 12 hours ago, I am sitting here with three people I hardly know, I'm not sure what is actually going on around me..." when he asked how we were today. Mostly I just sat quietly and did the best I could to eat. I was still very much in shock.
After lunch we went across the street to eat ice cream. I didn't like it and soon felt like going back home, so we left. These new friends were just so kind. They were newlyweds, Manjari in fact was brand new to America, and I was her first friend in her new country. The fact that they all came together like a family to me was something that warmed my heart on that sad day. It somehow felt better to me to be with them than it did to be with anyone else I'd known for years. I guess somewhere in my brain, my subconscious knew that these people would be my family, but just not yet.
That night Mayur and I basically sat in the floor of my apartment, listening to my dad's old Pink Floyd records and talking about him. I told him all about the history of my family, about my dad, what kind of guy he had been. I told him about how we'd spent Father's Day together this year for the first time in ages, and that on that day he'd handed over every bit of the family artifacts he had into my care. How he'd told me about the day his father passed away in the livingroom of his childhood home as he handed me a Ziploc bag containing what had been the contents of his father's wallet the day he died, his work badge, a book of family history, and a few other items.
I couldn't bear to look at any pictures then, and to this day it's actually very hard for me to listen to Pink Floyd because it takes me back to that night, the first night I lived without my father on this earth.
Something shifts in you when you lose a parent. It's something one can only understand when they've gone through it. You're just never the same.
The next morning I realized that I, as the only child, had a funeral to plan. I wasn't about to let my stepmother make too many of the decisions - my opinion of her wasn't the highest to begin with, and over time it would sink lower and lower. Today when I think of her I feel quite a bit of contempt.
Just as I was getting ready to leave - my mother drove back into town to take me on the two-hour drive to the tiny town where the funeral home and cemetery were located - my phone rang. It was my doctor. I listened to her quietly, and Mayur looked at me, knowing something more was wrong as he saw the tears streaming down my face.
She looked at me with such pain in her eyes, and over the course of a few minutes that are a bit hazy to me now after nearly four years, explained to me that my daddy, on Christmas night, fell asleep on the sofa in his livingroom. The next morning, just a few short hours later, he was dead.
His wife had found him there on the couch, at first thinking he was asleep. I still don't know really what happened that morning. I know she called both my grandmothers right away (a long story, but my dad and my grandmother - his ex-mother-in-law - were best friends from before the time my parents married until the day my dad died. This is a story for another day, though). My grandmother called my mommy, and it was decided that I needed to be told in person, that I shouldn't be alone when I found out that my dad was dead at the age of 53 years old. A month after his birthday, and on Christmas of all days.
I hate to think of him lying there, dying alone. Probably watching the Discovery Channel, probably sleeping in the livingroom because his marriage was a disaster. I found out later he'd had a big fight with his mother and sisters on Christmas Day, that his mother had said some cruel words and they parted angrily. Other than things turning brighter with me, most areas of his life were not really good. I guess his heart was past broken, his body worn down from years of manual labor and abuse of many things that he probably used to kill the pain of losing his own father at age 12, being divorced and separated from his only child by the time he was 27, losing his successful business by 30...he lived a hard life. But it was over that cold December night. He was at rest.
This was the first time I'd really lost anyone this close to me. An immediate family member; someone who shared my DNA. I didn't really know how to react. I just crumbled into my mother and stepfather's arms and cried for a while.
I am the type of person who needs to take action in crisis situations, though, and so the first person I called upon learning of my father's death was my boss. He is a kind man, and more of a brother or friend to me now than just a superior at work; his kindness to me in that moment is something I'll never forget. I took my phone onto the balcony of my apartment and called his number. I told him what happened and asked him to let everyone else from our close-knit work team know, and to tell my friends at work that I'd call them when I was feeling more up to it.
The next phone call I made was to Mayur. I can't explain why, but I felt I needed him at that moment. I just wanted my mother and stepdad to leave. I know it sounds cruel, but I think in some part of my mind I knew my mom was hurting maybe even more than I was (she and my dad had been friends since childhood, had gone through losing their own fathers together, and shared a child - me), and I didn't want her to have to be strong for both of us.
He answered my call to his mobile phone, sort of surprised because I never called him during the work day. As soon as he answered, I just said, "Mayur, my mommy and stepdad are here and they've just come to tell me my daddy died...my daddy is dead...can you please come over here?" He said he'd be there in five minutes and he kept that promise.
This was the first time he met anyone from my family. It was a little awkward, but I guess my mom knew how much this guy already meant to me by this time, and felt ok leaving me with him. He told her he wouldn't leave my side and that he would make sure I was ok. He took her phone number and said he'd call if I needed him to.
My parents left and I again collapsed and cried. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I was dirty, in shock, and a mess. I told Mayur I wanted to take a shower and that I would be back out in a little while. He made sure I would be ok, that I wouldn't pass out or anything, and I went into the bathroom and cried into the hot water some more. I finally calmed down, got out of the shower, dressed, and took a deep breath.
I walked out of my bathroom to find Mayur, Dinesh, and Manjari sitting silently on the couch. Mayur looked at me and said, "In India when someone dies we all come together. So they are here now with you. We are all here with you."
My neighbors, who after this would surely be my friends...offered their condolences and sat with me. After some time everyone decided that I needed to eat. By this time it was later in the day and I had not eaten since the day prior. We loaded into Dinesh's car and headed to an Indian restaurant with the pinkest walls I think I've ever seen. It felt so surreal, sitting, drinking coffee, eating dosas, and holding back from telling the waiter, "Well, my father died about 12 hours ago, I am sitting here with three people I hardly know, I'm not sure what is actually going on around me..." when he asked how we were today. Mostly I just sat quietly and did the best I could to eat. I was still very much in shock.
After lunch we went across the street to eat ice cream. I didn't like it and soon felt like going back home, so we left. These new friends were just so kind. They were newlyweds, Manjari in fact was brand new to America, and I was her first friend in her new country. The fact that they all came together like a family to me was something that warmed my heart on that sad day. It somehow felt better to me to be with them than it did to be with anyone else I'd known for years. I guess somewhere in my brain, my subconscious knew that these people would be my family, but just not yet.
That night Mayur and I basically sat in the floor of my apartment, listening to my dad's old Pink Floyd records and talking about him. I told him all about the history of my family, about my dad, what kind of guy he had been. I told him about how we'd spent Father's Day together this year for the first time in ages, and that on that day he'd handed over every bit of the family artifacts he had into my care. How he'd told me about the day his father passed away in the livingroom of his childhood home as he handed me a Ziploc bag containing what had been the contents of his father's wallet the day he died, his work badge, a book of family history, and a few other items.
I couldn't bear to look at any pictures then, and to this day it's actually very hard for me to listen to Pink Floyd because it takes me back to that night, the first night I lived without my father on this earth.
Something shifts in you when you lose a parent. It's something one can only understand when they've gone through it. You're just never the same.
The next morning I realized that I, as the only child, had a funeral to plan. I wasn't about to let my stepmother make too many of the decisions - my opinion of her wasn't the highest to begin with, and over time it would sink lower and lower. Today when I think of her I feel quite a bit of contempt.
Just as I was getting ready to leave - my mother drove back into town to take me on the two-hour drive to the tiny town where the funeral home and cemetery were located - my phone rang. It was my doctor. I listened to her quietly, and Mayur looked at me, knowing something more was wrong as he saw the tears streaming down my face.
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a Funeral Part 2
Christmas that year was one of the best and most fun I'd ever had. My extended stepfamily had a great time at my parents' house in rural Texas, and on Christmas Eve morning my mom, stepdad and I headed out to my grandma's house, also in rural Texas, but about five hours away. We had a fun day - relatives I'd never even met were there, and as per tradition (I was one of the lucky kids with parents who still got along pretty well after the divorce) my dad and stepmom showed up in time to enjoy my mom's mother's egg nog, delicious food, and of course, our Christmas Eve gift exchange.
At Thanksgiving, I'd introduced my daddy to Mayur via a picture on my laptop and a seventh-grade girl style description of my delight in this new boy. He made some teasing comment about Mayur and we had a laugh. I'd showed him some of my work (I do a lot of document layout and editing for my company) and he seemed so proud. On Christmas Eve, we continued the conversation, shared some cocktails, (I'm beginning to realize that in this blog I make it sound like all we do is drink - but I swear it's not that way! We're pretty tame for Irish-American folks) and just generally had a good time together.
This was the year my daddy and I had really had a breakthrough in our relationship. My parents split up, in a really painful way, when I was about five years old. I knew my dad had problems back then, but I only learned later just how bad they were. It had been a long 25 years of broken promises, child support never paid, and a lot of tears on my part. I was the girl who felt left behind by her father and grew up an only child raised by an amazing single mom.
But we'd been talking a lot over that year, and had worked out a lot of our issues. I visited my daddy right after my thirtieth birthday (the actual day had occurred when I was in Mexico, serving as a bridesmaid in Cristina's wedding), and he took me shopping. We went to a homegoods store and he told me I could have whatever I wanted. At lunch, and talked about life, my plans for the future, and he told me how proud he was of me. He took me to the place where he worked, and I wowed his all-Mexican staff by joking around with them in Spanish. Daddy told me it had been the best day of his entire life. In the months after my birthday, I felt like I could just call him for whatever reason - to talk about boys, work, anything. It had never been that way before.
At some point during the evening, my stepmother started getting antsy, wanting to leave because her daughter was home and she wanted to go and be with her. I told my dad it was ok - he could "go, go, go" I remember saying, not wanting him to feel bad and helping him avoid a fight with his wife. We said Merry Christmas and bye, and they left.
The next morning we did our usual traditions, opening stockings and packing up for the long drive back. We'd left my car at my apartment, so my mom and stepdad were dropping me off. At the time, I was one of the few people in my office without kids, so I offered to get straight back to work on December 26 while most everyone else was taking the time between Christmas and the new year off. My mom and stepdad dropped me home around 2 in the afternoon on Christmas day, and Mayur was waiting for me at my apartment (he'd hung around there since I had a TV and cable, and had recently added some specialty sports channels that he was eager to watch for hours on end).
We were hungry, but I figured nothing would be open, with it being Christmas. He assured me that Indian places would - and sure enough, he was right. We had our first Christmas dinner together - aloo parathas and lassis standing up in this Indian supermarket with a really good chaat stand in the back. We had so much fun that day and evening, and I felt content with everything in my life.
The next day, Mayur was back at work and I planned to spend the day working from home. Around 9 in the morning, my phone rang. It was my mother.
"Cora, I am coming to your apartment right now."
"Why mommy - I am super busy with work - why are you here in town?"
"I had a huge, huge fight with your stepdad and I just started driving and am coming over. I'll be there in half an hour."
I argued with her a little, but she was not giving in. This was highly unusual behavior for my mom. We are not 'drop by unexpectedly' kind of people. We are 'at least 24 hours notice before a visit' kind of people. So this all struck me as really odd. I figured the fight with my stepdad must have been pretty bad.
When she showed up at the gate of my apartment with my stepdad, I knew something was wrong. The look on her face told me something was really wrong. She said, "Let's go upstairs," and the three of us went up to my apartment.
She held back tears, and told me she needed to tell me something.
I'll never forget, standing there between my mom and stepdad in that tiny apartment - it was smaller than most hotel rooms, just one room, bed next to the couch, tiny 15-inch TV screen that could be seen throughout the entire space, kitchen so close to the bed that cooking late at night meant the bedsheets would smell like whatever had been on the menu that evening.
We stood there, the three of us, in silence, and she took my hands. She looked me in the eyes and said, "It's your daddy. He's gone."
At Thanksgiving, I'd introduced my daddy to Mayur via a picture on my laptop and a seventh-grade girl style description of my delight in this new boy. He made some teasing comment about Mayur and we had a laugh. I'd showed him some of my work (I do a lot of document layout and editing for my company) and he seemed so proud. On Christmas Eve, we continued the conversation, shared some cocktails, (I'm beginning to realize that in this blog I make it sound like all we do is drink - but I swear it's not that way! We're pretty tame for Irish-American folks) and just generally had a good time together.
This was the year my daddy and I had really had a breakthrough in our relationship. My parents split up, in a really painful way, when I was about five years old. I knew my dad had problems back then, but I only learned later just how bad they were. It had been a long 25 years of broken promises, child support never paid, and a lot of tears on my part. I was the girl who felt left behind by her father and grew up an only child raised by an amazing single mom.
But we'd been talking a lot over that year, and had worked out a lot of our issues. I visited my daddy right after my thirtieth birthday (the actual day had occurred when I was in Mexico, serving as a bridesmaid in Cristina's wedding), and he took me shopping. We went to a homegoods store and he told me I could have whatever I wanted. At lunch, and talked about life, my plans for the future, and he told me how proud he was of me. He took me to the place where he worked, and I wowed his all-Mexican staff by joking around with them in Spanish. Daddy told me it had been the best day of his entire life. In the months after my birthday, I felt like I could just call him for whatever reason - to talk about boys, work, anything. It had never been that way before.
At some point during the evening, my stepmother started getting antsy, wanting to leave because her daughter was home and she wanted to go and be with her. I told my dad it was ok - he could "go, go, go" I remember saying, not wanting him to feel bad and helping him avoid a fight with his wife. We said Merry Christmas and bye, and they left.
The next morning we did our usual traditions, opening stockings and packing up for the long drive back. We'd left my car at my apartment, so my mom and stepdad were dropping me off. At the time, I was one of the few people in my office without kids, so I offered to get straight back to work on December 26 while most everyone else was taking the time between Christmas and the new year off. My mom and stepdad dropped me home around 2 in the afternoon on Christmas day, and Mayur was waiting for me at my apartment (he'd hung around there since I had a TV and cable, and had recently added some specialty sports channels that he was eager to watch for hours on end).
We were hungry, but I figured nothing would be open, with it being Christmas. He assured me that Indian places would - and sure enough, he was right. We had our first Christmas dinner together - aloo parathas and lassis standing up in this Indian supermarket with a really good chaat stand in the back. We had so much fun that day and evening, and I felt content with everything in my life.
The next day, Mayur was back at work and I planned to spend the day working from home. Around 9 in the morning, my phone rang. It was my mother.
"Cora, I am coming to your apartment right now."
"Why mommy - I am super busy with work - why are you here in town?"
"I had a huge, huge fight with your stepdad and I just started driving and am coming over. I'll be there in half an hour."
I argued with her a little, but she was not giving in. This was highly unusual behavior for my mom. We are not 'drop by unexpectedly' kind of people. We are 'at least 24 hours notice before a visit' kind of people. So this all struck me as really odd. I figured the fight with my stepdad must have been pretty bad.
When she showed up at the gate of my apartment with my stepdad, I knew something was wrong. The look on her face told me something was really wrong. She said, "Let's go upstairs," and the three of us went up to my apartment.
She held back tears, and told me she needed to tell me something.
I'll never forget, standing there between my mom and stepdad in that tiny apartment - it was smaller than most hotel rooms, just one room, bed next to the couch, tiny 15-inch TV screen that could be seen throughout the entire space, kitchen so close to the bed that cooking late at night meant the bedsheets would smell like whatever had been on the menu that evening.
We stood there, the three of us, in silence, and she took my hands. She looked me in the eyes and said, "It's your daddy. He's gone."
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and a Funeral Part 1
I spent Thanksgiving with my family, but left that day to drive back to Mayur's place and hang out with him. My mom and grandma packed all kinds of food up for him to try (they knew about him at this point - though I'd only known him for a grand total of about four weeks by then, I suppose). He promptly took my grandmother's delicious mashed potatoes, frowned at their bland taste (in his opinion!) mixed them with chili powder, salt, and probably something else, then pressed this mixture between the two sides of a dinner roll, declaring that this greatly improved the taste and quality of the food. I'd like to see him try that in front of my grandmother!
The holidays rolled along, as they do, and both our office Christmas parties were coming up. He worked at a proper large corporation, and as such this large corporation had a huge, very corporate holiday party planned. I was fairly surprised when he invited me to go with him. We'd had a few discussions by this time about my existence and the lack of the knowledge of this on the part of, well, anyone from his life outside the town he'd lived in for three months, so I didn't really think he'd want anyone from his office to know about me either. I was starting to get the feeling that I was some kind of dirty little secret.
I work at a large proper corporation too, but at the time, I worked in a small regional office (I work from home now, which is awesome!) in Texas. We were having a Christmas party too, and I was planning it. I booked us a suite at a hockey game - lots of food, good wine, and plenty of fun. And of course Mayur was coming with me. It was the first time he was meeting some of my coworkers - he quickly settled into a quiet conversation with the resident IT guru, talking data, technology, and things like that. This guy happens to be a very senior person in my company, and a good friend to me. I was glad they were bonding.
After the home team's victory, everyone was still eager to keep the party going. We headed to a blues club which, fortunately for me, was on the way back to the town where I lived. After a couple of hours of loud music, drinks, and a smoky bar, I decided it was time to go. I work with a rowdy bunch. I heard that after we left a couple of guys nearly got into a smackdown fight in the bar with some random guys who were hitting on some of the girls from our group - I was glad I was not there for that drama.
I felt like he was really my boyfriend then, walking into to his company party. I felt so proud walking in on his arm, navigating (on heels that made me nearly as tall as him) through the massive corporate office transformed into a winter wonderland. In one room a hired photographer took semi-professional photos, to be delivered to the employees in their offices the following week. Our first photo together. We met some of his coworkers, too - this was the first time I had the fun experience of standing quietly as he spoke in Hindi with the guys while their wives looked at me suspiciously.
Our third holiday party was at the home of a friend of Melissa's. All my girlfriends were going to be there; he'd only ever met Melissa, and I was excited for him to meet everyone else, most of all Melissa's boyfriend Brian. I knew they'd have a lot in common. We had a great time at the party and enjoyed ourselves until late that night, returning back to our shared neighborhood that sparkled under the glow of tens of thousands of holiday lights and a giant community Christmas tree that I could see through the panes of the French doors in my tiny apartment.
Christmas approached, and I wondered if Mayur and I would celebrate together and exchange gifts. This would actually be his first Christmas - growing up Hindu in a part of India without many Christians meant he hadn't even really been exposed to the pop culture version of the Christmas season - shiny red bows, Christmas carols, traditional foods - this was all new to him. I planned to leave to celebrate the holiday with my mother, stepdad and his family the day before Christmas Eve, then head to my grandma's house to celebrate. So we decided to celebrate before I left.
We both ended up getting each other stockings filled with all kinds of different treats. I was really touched by how well he knew me and what sweet presents he picked out - from the stuffed kitten that I would end up taking with me on all my work trips over the following two years to the bottle of perfume that I used to the last drop. He liked his gifts too, and we both just seemed so happy that Christmas.
I never would have dreamed that just two days later my whole world would be ripped out from under my feet, and that this sweet boy would be the only bright spot in my life as the twinkling lights dimmed and everything around me turned very, very dark.
The holidays rolled along, as they do, and both our office Christmas parties were coming up. He worked at a proper large corporation, and as such this large corporation had a huge, very corporate holiday party planned. I was fairly surprised when he invited me to go with him. We'd had a few discussions by this time about my existence and the lack of the knowledge of this on the part of, well, anyone from his life outside the town he'd lived in for three months, so I didn't really think he'd want anyone from his office to know about me either. I was starting to get the feeling that I was some kind of dirty little secret.
I work at a large proper corporation too, but at the time, I worked in a small regional office (I work from home now, which is awesome!) in Texas. We were having a Christmas party too, and I was planning it. I booked us a suite at a hockey game - lots of food, good wine, and plenty of fun. And of course Mayur was coming with me. It was the first time he was meeting some of my coworkers - he quickly settled into a quiet conversation with the resident IT guru, talking data, technology, and things like that. This guy happens to be a very senior person in my company, and a good friend to me. I was glad they were bonding.
After the home team's victory, everyone was still eager to keep the party going. We headed to a blues club which, fortunately for me, was on the way back to the town where I lived. After a couple of hours of loud music, drinks, and a smoky bar, I decided it was time to go. I work with a rowdy bunch. I heard that after we left a couple of guys nearly got into a smackdown fight in the bar with some random guys who were hitting on some of the girls from our group - I was glad I was not there for that drama.
I felt like he was really my boyfriend then, walking into to his company party. I felt so proud walking in on his arm, navigating (on heels that made me nearly as tall as him) through the massive corporate office transformed into a winter wonderland. In one room a hired photographer took semi-professional photos, to be delivered to the employees in their offices the following week. Our first photo together. We met some of his coworkers, too - this was the first time I had the fun experience of standing quietly as he spoke in Hindi with the guys while their wives looked at me suspiciously.
Our third holiday party was at the home of a friend of Melissa's. All my girlfriends were going to be there; he'd only ever met Melissa, and I was excited for him to meet everyone else, most of all Melissa's boyfriend Brian. I knew they'd have a lot in common. We had a great time at the party and enjoyed ourselves until late that night, returning back to our shared neighborhood that sparkled under the glow of tens of thousands of holiday lights and a giant community Christmas tree that I could see through the panes of the French doors in my tiny apartment.
Christmas approached, and I wondered if Mayur and I would celebrate together and exchange gifts. This would actually be his first Christmas - growing up Hindu in a part of India without many Christians meant he hadn't even really been exposed to the pop culture version of the Christmas season - shiny red bows, Christmas carols, traditional foods - this was all new to him. I planned to leave to celebrate the holiday with my mother, stepdad and his family the day before Christmas Eve, then head to my grandma's house to celebrate. So we decided to celebrate before I left.
We both ended up getting each other stockings filled with all kinds of different treats. I was really touched by how well he knew me and what sweet presents he picked out - from the stuffed kitten that I would end up taking with me on all my work trips over the following two years to the bottle of perfume that I used to the last drop. He liked his gifts too, and we both just seemed so happy that Christmas.
I never would have dreamed that just two days later my whole world would be ripped out from under my feet, and that this sweet boy would be the only bright spot in my life as the twinkling lights dimmed and everything around me turned very, very dark.
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