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.