andamu

[ remembering ]
Twenty-two years.
On the evening of September 3, 1982, my father was walking off the pavement toward his parked car, when a drunk driver came racing down the street, scooped him from the curb and caused him such severe injuries that Pappa died a few hours later in hospital, before the driver sped away from the scene.
Usually the emergency personnel who work accident scenes tell distraught relatives, "He died on impact, he would not have suffered." In this case, I have to live with the thought that he was alive for five hours. I am sure that once the ambulance arrived they must have started some sedation, but ambulances take time to arrive...
::
No doubt any loss of a parent is tough. I was daddy's little girl. He taught me his love for books, and shared his views with me. He did not talk down to me, and took an interest in what I had to say, debated issues and shaped a philosophy, and all this before I was 13 years old.
In the few months immediately before he was killed, our conversations seem to have gained a new dimension. I would like to think he was able to communicate with me on a more adult level - or at least a less childish one.
It hit me hardest in the months following when I would find a passage of interest in a book, glance up at the sunlight on the wall and think: "It's getting close to five o'clock. I must remember to tell this to Pappa when he gets home."
The realization at that time that he is not coming home, will never come home, was shattering.
::
[ meandering ]
Part of the problem I suspect is the lack of ritual in the West. Of course there is a certain almost involuntary rhythm to the events following a death: Shocked relatives and friends coming to the house, staying a while, everyone crying. Then the food starts arriving: Casseroles and soups, masking tape with block printed names on the bottom of the dishes ensuring that each is returned to its rightful owner, and serving as aide-memoire when writing thank you notes. Over the next few days the house empties, with mostly only the food ladies dropping by. On the day of the funeral, again the house is overwhelmed with people, but through the couple of days immediately after, everything returns to normal - or what masquerades as normality.
And that is it. All "ritual" done.
If we had been in India, we would have had a ritual of remembrance every month for the first year. And thereafter every year. Acknowledging what a part they had played in our lives. That we miss them. That we remember them. That we are continuing with our lives.
Now, some years I remember the date some weeks in advance, and/or some weeks later. Mostly I remember the day, but a few times it has passed without my noticing it. I can however never hear the date, no matter what the context, without immediately thinking of him.
::
[ grind ]
Feeling very out of sorts. Part of it no doubt is emotional, but some of it is physical. My body seems hot all over and apart from a headache I have some general feeling of malaise.
Put together some bread dough and punched away some of the ickies. Still snapping at whomever comes within ten feet of me, though. Which only makes me feel worse, of course, and they are naturally feeling horrible after that too, which is worse still and then the emotional issues grow and.... As vicious a circle as any.
I wish I would hurry up and become human again!