“These things, they go away; replaced by every day” 

I ran into a coworker at the supermarket. A red hot needle poked discretely into the recess of my underarm– torture that is unseen; leaves no marks, so I can still function in a capacity productive to my employer. I intentionally go to a supermarket on the other side of town as to avoid this. I don’t want to be in work mode when I don’t have to be. I’m not very good at work mode in the social sense, and I disregard this character flaw with the half-excuse that bland social niceties are a feminine construct and there’s no good reason to excel at anything feminine. Leave me alone and let me do my job– which is something that usually works, in the context of the busybody work place, but falls apart when you run into a co-worker at the supermarket.

No one wants a real answer when they ask how you’re doing. It’s as boilerplate as reading the warnings on the inside of an instruction booklet for a brand new toaster or the 40,000 word Terms of Service bundled with an iPhone update. “Fine, great, and you?” will usually suffice when we’re at work and we all have our busybody things to do… but it’s when we have an unstructured minute to chat without such constraints that you suddenly have to improvise.

This insidious co-worker, how dare he stop at my supermarket, stood in front of the eggs while telling me about his summer– spending more time with his daughter and working on the house; looking forward to the big vacation. And you?

And you… well, me? I’m just hanging out. Low key summer. Spending time at the gym. Getting things in order. My father died, so there’s a lot to do.

There was a prolonged pause. I realized my folly with vicious immediacy. Not only did I provide my poor, unwitting coworker with a regretfully honest answer– I was never one to lie– but I mentioned the death of a parent while standing in front of the eggs at Whole Foods. His discomfort was tangible. I continued: it’s been a lot. You know it’s coming your entire life, but it happens so fast and then it’s over. The paperwork (my father made zero arrangements in the event of his death) and cleaning (nor did he ever throw anything away) is so overwhelming that you don’t really have time to process things. You don’t have time to grieve, and even if you did… what does that even look like? Besides, I need take care of my mother– she only has me, and before that, she only had us. She’s having a hard time with things.

I said maybe half of these things to my coworker standing in front of the eggs. I said these things in a dry tone that communicated matters of fact. In a social sense, this was my mistake, but this is what you don’t expect when dealing with the death of a parent. When thinking about it in horror, on those long sleepless nights. The nightmares you’d have about it, as an only child with abandonment issues. You fear abandonment but you expect the world to fail you– the result of growing up with parents who had profound, life defining problems. You fear their abandonment while you become their protector; guilt and sadness define your relationship– you’re Bruce Wayne picking over the events of that night in obsessive detail.

I said these things in a dry tone that communicated matters of fact because that’s what these things become. It becomes a fact that your father died and you have to grit your teeth and fucking deal with it. I didn’t feel the need for a gentle showing of performative emotion nor did I want to use a euphemism. My father died. He’s my father and he died. 

The first time I used those words, at first only through text, staring at them before hitting send: my father’s going to die, sitting three feet from his hospital bed… his sedated husk with more tubes than I wanted to count, mouth agape with intubation leaving him with a static expression of horror– the moment of death still and prolonged. Staring at my text window through the blur of tears before hitting send. I didn’t want a euphemism because this is my life and my father and my father was going to die.

Something that becomes a matter of fact when it’s over. After the priest says his last rites. Encourages you to say goodbye, what you thought was ridiculous five minutes prior, talking to someone who can’t hear you, but with nudging… you tell him that you love him. That you knew about all the problems he had. That you understood. That you forgive him– you know he tried his best. You know he cared. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry I didn’t do more. I’m sorry I didn’t do more to protect you from yourself. Maybe if I did, things would have been different for all of us… I promised to take care of Mom, and I will.

Holding my zip-up hoodie balled to my face– no matter how old you are, you’re ten years old watching your father die. The staff instruct us to leave the room. They draw a curtain. They offer a refreshment cart, out of place in an ICU but has got to be some kind of end-of-life grief protocol for families. It’s grounding– a reality check, maybe. Reminds you that you’re alive and life is about to go on. Things are about to get matter of fact.

They invite us back into the room– my father, now relieved of his tubes; mouth closed; quiet expression. We stand by his side. They instruct us to hold his hands. My mother takes his hand. When did I ever hold his hand? Men don’t hold hands. When my dog was sick, my dad knew what had to be done, and he loved that fucking dog. Men know when its time and they do the right thing for each other and now it was my fucking turn, and that’s what this was: “your turn now, my turn later.” A matter of fact because it has to be; a matter of fact because maybe it’s easier to deal with that way. 

A matter of fact that part of an only child dies with each parent; a life that only you both could know– that no one else could understand. This is why Bruce Wayne goes out at night; this is why I sit at a keyboard. Part of me died with you that afternoon, Anthony. I promise I’ll take care of Mom, and I will. 

My coworker told me it was nice seeing me after picking out his eggs. 

Said he hoped I enjoyed the rest of my summer.