So, I woke I up this morning, and my Dad was dead. Still. He died almost seven years ago, but, as it turns out, when I woke up today he was STILL dead. The nerve! Not to mention that today is his birthday, and I can’t even take him out to dinner.
One of the things I hate the most about the Dead is that they stay that way. I guess it’s good: I mean, we can wish they weren’t dead, but it would be kind of scary if they went from dead to not. Or worse: back and forth, back and forth. Creepy.
Do you think there’s brain stuff that transfers through the genes? My Dad was a writer. His Dad was a writer. His Mother was a writer. My Mother is a writer, too. When I look at my family histories, there are writers through the roof. Lots of them, is what I meant; I didn’t mean they were roofers. One of my favorite pictures of all time is my Dad, typing away on his typewriter. While he sits in the pool. It’s an awesome picture, really, and it could only be better if he were smoking, too. (Just for the look of it, I mean, not because smoking is cool. Never smoke, boys and girls. It’s bad for you!)
No, smoking is definitely NOT cool; it just looks like it. Visually speaking, I mean, like Sandy in “Grease.” She gets hotter just because she’s smoking a cigarette–just so she looks tough or something.
(It’s unfortunate for Sandy and Danny’s burgenoning relationship, though, because John Travolta/Danny picks up track and lives a false life as a pretend athlete-nerd. However, athletes can’t smoke, so now they are sure in a pickle, aren’t they? It will all work it out, though, because Rizzo doesn’t really have a bun in the oven.)
In real life, though, smoking causes cancer. Or heart attacks. I don’t know if she smoked, but Olivia Newton John had cancer. My Dad had a heart attack (that’s how he died), but he never smoked. So, we could say that Olvia Newton John and my Dad were sort of kindred spirits because those three things are related: cigarettes, heart attacks and cancer. Except that Olivia Newton John didn’t die from her cancer and my Dad did die from his heart attack. Shit.
My Dad was an amazing guy. He was funny; he was sharp as a whip, and he was a terrific writer. I’m funny, too, maybe only sharp as a limp whip, and as far as being a terrific writer goes. Well, let’s just say I ASPIRE. A girl can dream, right?
If you haven’t lost a parent yet, be thankful. It sucks worse than almost anything. It almost feels like you are dying yourself (which you are, because we all are). I can remember that, at one point, the pain was so bad I could barely breathe. I had to hold onto the door jamb for a minute because I was just not strong enough to walk another step. I couldn’t breathe and it hurt too damn much. That was in the first few weeks after he died.
I prefer Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company.
Mark Twain
That was later in this never ending grief thing, but right after he had died, like right after, I remember my sister and I unexpectedly and out of the blue just saying “What?” “What?” Somehow reality is just incomprehensible and one finds oneself saying, “What?” at the horrific fact that has just been forced upon one. What I really mean is “me.” Us.
Death is like that. Dad was alive and then… he wasn’t. Of COURSE, it’s incomprehensible– because it’s just too big to take in. How does that happen? How could it happen? (A heart attack, remember?). When you are making a sandwich, and then you accidentally drop it, the peanut butter and jelly side always falls face down (if you drop it before you get its bread-lid on). It always lands face down…and so do we. All of us. Eventually.
So, Happy Birthday, Dad. If you’re upstairs, go enjoy yourself with those good people. If you’re downstairs, enjoy yourself with those heathens. And if you are in purgatory? Well, you should have been more decisive in your choices, then, shouldn’t you?
As Mark Twain, one of my Dad’s favorite writers, famously said: “Go to heaven for the climate, and hell for the company.” I hope you’re enjoying the weather, Dad. Happy Birthday! I love you. I miss you.
