Yesterday was my first Thursday night knitting group. Several of us from my Sunday group decided to start one on our side of town, just so we’d have something midweek. While I was there, my mom called me twice, but my phone was in my bag and on silent. Matt’s like a toddler whose mom goes to the bathroom: they can be fine for hours and hours, but the instant mom has to pee, they suddenly NEED attention. Yup, Matt does the same thing to me while I’m knitting.
Anyway, I called my mom thinking she wanted to ask/tell me something about my step-dad’s birthday party on Sunday. Instead, she told me my dad died. Technically, he was also my step-dad, but he adopted me when I was a toddler, so he was the only dad I really knew. He was a pretty shitty one, and I hadn’t talked to him for at least four years. Now I’m trying to process and getting nowhere, because I just don’t feel anything. No sadness, no regret, nothing. At the most, I feel bad that I didn’t have the kind of dad, or the kind of relationship with my dad that would make me sad that he’s dead.
I never met his new wife. I haven’t talked to my sister in seven years. It’s been even longer since I talked to my aunt, after she screwed me over on my inheritance from my grandmother (which my dad did nothing about…but I’d already stopped talking to him long before that point). The only reason my mom even found out was because a friend ran into a friend who knew a friend who saw my dad while he was in hospice. My mom wasn’t even sure what day he died, but it was sometime this week.
Maybe I’ll feel something later, though I doubt it. I spent decades getting past the not so lovely job my parents did. I look around at my life now, my wonderful husband, amazing children, and good friends, and I am grateful for what I have, but… On the plus side, I’m obviously past all my anger issues, because I’m not happy that he’s dead. I used to dream of dancing on his grave, but that mostly went away by the time I hit thirty-something.
I’ve tried to think of the good things, and can only come up with six. He taught me to snorkel. He stayed in the hospital with me when I had my tonsils out. He got my tuition refunded when I had to stay in the hospital for a week with a kidney infection while I was pregnant with Matt. He went to as many of Matt’s football games as he could and taught me about football. He taught me how to make spaghetti.
That’s my eulogy.