The last four weeks have been a zinger. My brother in law had a massive aortic rupture without warning. We were in the ICU in Orange for days.
Open heart surgery that lasted twelve hours. We were brimming to the rim with sadness and anxiety but we couldn’t break.
No sleep, so much grief, heartbreaking decisions, and it all felt like a bad dream. Then he passed on the fourth day. I fell to the ground. “Must get up,” I thought. So I did.
Funeral to plan. Collages to make. Still had to go to work. Every day.
My family shattered. Glass on floor. Husband in pieces and 84 year old mother in law a zombie. Then clothes to bring, photos to copy for montage and a reception to plan and much more. His 13 year old son to comfort. A eulogy to write. I didn’t cry, not even once, that week. I read Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” straight through (not my first time).
Then funeral. More hazy moments. Friends in the seats are the only thing that kept me sane. I felt my family shrinking. I spoke. But felt weightless and floating over myself. Watching it all.
Reception. I couldn’t eat. Beer then more beer. Too many (exemplified by me saying “This is for the homie” with tears in my eyes pouring beer on the grass.)
The worst was the next day.
The sinking in of grief.
My house felt like a tomb.
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