now?
Saturday 3/20
4:45 A.M.
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
5:08 A.M.
When am I EVER going to be able to sleep again?
5:31 A.M.
It is Saturday morning and my mother is dead.
5:38 A.M.
The funeral will be held on Monday. Monday morning at 11:00. Dad arranged that last night.
The service will be held at the Palo City Unitarian Universalist Church. I haven’t been there in a few years, but Mom and Dad used to go pretty often, especially before Mom got sick. The only reason they stopped going was because Mom was in the hospital so often. And when she was at home she usually didn’t feel well enough to go out. She and Dad did go to church a couple of times this year, though. And the minister, Jim, came over to our house quite often. I like him.
He isn’t phony. Very straightforward. And very open. The good thing about the UU church is that it is accepting of all kinds of people. It isn’t judgmental.
5:50 A.M.
I can’t believe that my mother is dead and I’m analyzing churches.
6:00 A.M.
Mom, I miss you already.
6:09 A.M.
Dad’s up. I can hear him moving around in is room. He’s crying. Should I go to him?
I can’t go to him.
Dad is in his room now. It’s Dad’s room only. It’ll never be his and Mom’s again. Can Dad bear it?
Can any of us bear any of this?
10:00 A.M.
Our house is like Grand Central Station. I wish everyone would just go away and leave us alone.
Why are they bothering us?
11:10 A.M.
Dad just asked me to help out and I blew up at him. Like I used to do. I’m in my room now.
EVERYBODY, LEAVE ME ALONE.
11:22 A.M.
Just apologized to Dad.
I know he’s feeling as horrible as I am.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
“I do,” Dad replied. “Because you’re mad. And you have a right to be.”
“I do?”
“Of course.”
Well. That was nice to hear.
Dad sat next to me on the bed. “We may have lost your mother,” he said, “but we still have each other.”
“I know.”
“What makes you the angriest of all?”
I thought for a moment. “That Mom put us in this position — so that all we do have is each other.”
Dad gave me a funny half smile.
I looked down at my lap then. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Finally I said, “But if all I do have is one other person, I’m glad it’s you.”
Dad took me in his arms then and we cried together. It wasn’t embarrassing at all. It seemed quite natural.
When we felt a little better, Dad asked me again to help out. We need to make phone calls and lots and lots of arrangements, he said. He asked me if I would talk to the florist and choose the flowers for the funeral.
To be honest, I don’t really want to. But I said I would.
12:07 P.M.
God, some people are stupid. Dawn was here. She said, “Sunny, you sound so angry. Why are you angry? I thought you’d be sad.” What a jerk.
I just looked at her and said, “Get out of my room.”
12:22 P.M.
Mymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgone.
12:48 P.M.
I think I am going crazy.
2:30 P.M.
Carol has been here. She appeared in my doorway. I was sitting on my bed. I hadn’t called the florist or done anything Dad had asked me to do. I’m not sure what Carol wanted to say to me. I didn’t even give her a chance. The second I saw her, I started talking. Everything just came spewing out. I said, “Carol, I’m sorry. I was horrible to Dawn. I was horrible to Dad. I didn’t mea anything I said. I want to get the right flowers. And I want to talk to Dawn.” Then I burst into tears.
Carol held me and let me cry.
“You know,” she said after awhile [sic], “it’s going to be a long time before you feel better. This is not going to go away quickly. You probably aren’t going to understand your feelings, or what you do, or what you say. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
I nodded, still crying.
“On the other hand,” Carol went on,
Saturday 3/20
4:45 A.M.
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
THIS ISN’T HAPPENING
5:08 A.M.
When am I EVER going to be able to sleep again?
5:31 A.M.
It is Saturday morning and my mother is dead.
5:38 A.M.
The funeral will be held on Monday. Monday morning at 11:00. Dad arranged that last night.
The service will be held at the Palo City Unitarian Universalist Church. I haven’t been there in a few years, but Mom and Dad used to go pretty often, especially before Mom got sick. The only reason they stopped going was because Mom was in the hospital so often. And when she was at home she usually didn’t feel well enough to go out. She and Dad did go to church a couple of times this year, though. And the minister, Jim, came over to our house quite often. I like him.
He isn’t phony. Very straightforward. And very open. The good thing about the UU church is that it is accepting of all kinds of people. It isn’t judgmental.
5:50 A.M.
I can’t believe that my mother is dead and I’m analyzing churches.
6:00 A.M.
Mom, I miss you already.
6:09 A.M.
Dad’s up. I can hear him moving around in is room. He’s crying. Should I go to him?
I can’t go to him.
Dad is in his room now. It’s Dad’s room only. It’ll never be his and Mom’s again. Can Dad bear it?
Can any of us bear any of this?
10:00 A.M.
Our house is like Grand Central Station. I wish everyone would just go away and leave us alone.
Why are they bothering us?
11:10 A.M.
Dad just asked me to help out and I blew up at him. Like I used to do. I’m in my room now.
EVERYBODY, LEAVE ME ALONE.
11:22 A.M.
Just apologized to Dad.
I know he’s feeling as horrible as I am.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t know why I’m acting like this.”
“I do,” Dad replied. “Because you’re mad. And you have a right to be.”
“I do?”
“Of course.”
Well. That was nice to hear.
Dad sat next to me on the bed. “We may have lost your mother,” he said, “but we still have each other.”
“I know.”
“What makes you the angriest of all?”
I thought for a moment. “That Mom put us in this position — so that all we do have is each other.”
Dad gave me a funny half smile.
I looked down at my lap then. I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Finally I said, “But if all I do have is one other person, I’m glad it’s you.”
Dad took me in his arms then and we cried together. It wasn’t embarrassing at all. It seemed quite natural.
When we felt a little better, Dad asked me again to help out. We need to make phone calls and lots and lots of arrangements, he said. He asked me if I would talk to the florist and choose the flowers for the funeral.
To be honest, I don’t really want to. But I said I would.
12:07 P.M.
God, some people are stupid. Dawn was here. She said, “Sunny, you sound so angry. Why are you angry? I thought you’d be sad.” What a jerk.
I just looked at her and said, “Get out of my room.”
12:22 P.M.
Mymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgonemymotherisgone.
12:48 P.M.
I think I am going crazy.
2:30 P.M.
Carol has been here. She appeared in my doorway. I was sitting on my bed. I hadn’t called the florist or done anything Dad had asked me to do. I’m not sure what Carol wanted to say to me. I didn’t even give her a chance. The second I saw her, I started talking. Everything just came spewing out. I said, “Carol, I’m sorry. I was horrible to Dawn. I was horrible to Dad. I didn’t mea anything I said. I want to get the right flowers. And I want to talk to Dawn.” Then I burst into tears.
Carol held me and let me cry.
“You know,” she said after awhile [sic], “it’s going to be a long time before you feel better. This is not going to go away quickly. You probably aren’t going to understand your feelings, or what you do, or what you say. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
I nodded, still crying.
“On the other hand,” Carol went on,
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