I spent a couple more days with mom, then went back to the apartment and my life. Turk asked if everything went okay with her and I told him it had. It wasn't a lie, technically. Part of me wanted to yell at him, "My dad died! He had a heart attack and I saw him in a casket with the stitches from his autopsy and he's probably being cremated as we speak! What the hell happened?" Instead I gave a fake smile, claimed exhaustion, and slipped into my room where I curled into the fetal position and cried. An hour later, I was asleep. After all, I had work in the morning.
Actually, it was pretty easy to fall into my routine and even pretend nothing was wrong. Well, not entirely I walked around like a zombie for a week, which made Eliot and Carla concerned. Both claimed I was more spacey than usual.
The stages of loss or tragedy are tricky, especially with a relationship like dad's and mine. I put a picture of him in my desk drawer, so every time I opened it I'd see his face. Otherwise, what did I have to make me think about him.? He had made a lasting impression, but more by not being around than anything else. It's hard to get past denial when it feels like there's nothing to deny.
And anger. Reasonable anger. First, he'd left me of his own choice, and then his choices made him leave for good. What had he been thinking? You can't smoke two packs a day, knock back a six-pack a night, eat only red meat and potatoes, and live past fifty. He knew that. He had to know that. Zygotes know that!
As I dezombified, denial gave way to moments of reality. Grief. The first snowfall reminded me it he wouldn't see it. Football reminded me that he would never see another game (or yell at the TV). A newspaper laying all over the place reminded me of his Saturday mornings on the floor, in front of the TV, reading.
I dreamt about him, too. Some were pleasant, where we'd be close and friendly, doing something odd, like grocery shopping. Some were traumatic, where he'd be having his heart attack and everything I did only made it worse (assuming a heart attack can be made worse). One stuck out, though. I was in the hospital, surrounded by people moving, trying to go from the entrance to a patient's room. Suddenly, I saw him standing ahead of me, looking right into my eyes. I pushed through everyone to reach him, but he was gone. Or I rushed after him as he walked slowly away, only to lose him at the end of a hall.
The time I spent thinking about him almost always (for awhile) led me to his last minutes. I wasn't there, so all I have is my imagination. Imagination and questions. What did he feel? Tingling? Shortness of breath? Pressure? Pain? Did he call out for help and no one heard? After all, Tim found him unconscious. Did my dad even realize it was a heart attack? Did he know, right before the end, that he would die? Did he think of me? Did he feel peace? Regret? Sadness? Fear? Sorry, maybe? I especially wonder where he is now. But none of these questions, no matter how persistent, have any relevance because they can't have any answers.
Invariably, I round off by thinking about the future, as though the past isn't depressing enough. Maybe he did abandon me, but I would have liked any future grandchildren to know him. He could have been a better grandpa than dad. Or get to know whomever I marry one day. It's the little things, yes. But it's the big things, too.
For some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to tell anyone. I'm sure they noticed a mood change, and they made sure to ask if I was okay on a nearly daily basis. I kept coming up with excuses, since I could never make "oh, my dad died and I never told you" come out sounding right.
After six months, I began to feel myself moving from denial, anger, and constant fits of bawling to anger and weekly bawling—sometimes every other week. Fortunately, I had an excellent support system of my voice in my head and my mom. This saw me to just after the seven month anniversary, when I took a quick break from my shift and listened to voicemail messages outside, where my fingers went numb with cold. And a few others parts.
Eliot, Eliot, mom, Eliot, Grandma Dorian—Grandma Dorian? When had she learned to leave a voicemail message? This was the woman who wouldn't go near my laptop for fear of breaking it, apparently with her mental powers alone. I called her back and willed my teeth to stop chattering.
"Hey, Grandma, is everything okay?"
"Oh, Johnny, it's you. I just wanted to chat. How're you doing?"
"Good. On a break at the hospital. What's up with you?" And please say it quickly or you won't have any great-grandchildren from me.
"I'm sitting here watching my Law and Order, having a little ice-cream. Started thinking about your dad." She got quiet for a moment. "I sure miss him."
"I know. Me, too."
"I'll never forget the day I found out; and I'll never forgive the girl who told me—not as long as I live."
What? "What are you talking about? What happened?"
"I was watching my soapies when some girl from the hospital called. She asked me if I knew Samuel Dorian. I told her he's my son and asked if something was wrong—had he been in a car accident? You know your dad liked to drive fast. Well, she said, "No, he's dead." Just like that. "No, he's dead." I couldn't believe it. I'll never forgive her."
I was stunned. Shocked. Furious. Grandma talked a little bit more about random things, then let me go with a, "well, this is probably costing you an arm and a leg." But even inside the hospital again, I couldn't shake her words and my rage. After half an hour of giving patients five-percent of my attention, I decided to go be hurt and angry in the rarely used men's room. In other words, I ran away to cry.
That…bitch. I wanted to tell her that her son had died and see how she reacted. How could she hurt an old woman like that? And not just any old woman; my grandma. Not thinking, and in a fit of fury, I rammed my fist into the stall door, leaving a dent (on the wall…and possibly my hand). Great, if the Janitor ever found out, he'd kill me. Plus, my hand hurt.
I let myself cry until I was pretty sure I couldn't cry anymore. I cried so hard that my head hurt and my eyes looked like they'd just been washed with soap. How could I convince people I hadn't blubbered like an infant? Allergies? Mouth full of wasabi? Kneed in the—
"JD?"
Dr. Cox? Dr. Cox!
I spun around without thinking, thus letting Dr. Cox see I had cried.
He looked supremely uncomfortable. "What're the tears for, Gretch? You didn't kill anyone today."
Instead of answering, I just clenched my fists and started for the door. "Stress," I mumbled as I walked past
"Aw, is Newbie stressed? I bet this is about Barbie. Look, she's having dolphin sex, so get over it."
I was halfway out the door when I felt myself turn around to respond. "It's not Eliot, you arrogant jerk. I'm crying because my dad died seven months ago. Now I'm sure you can make fun of that by yourself."
I stormed out, surprised by my words. Making it to the nearest supply closet (and praying no one would barge in there), I closed the door and broke down in sobs again.
What was wrong with me? I tried to stop crying, but I couldn't—and they weren't little whimpers. These were full body, head-in-hands-choking-on-my-own-spit sobs. It took every ounce of willpower to not rock back and forth like a lunatic. Of course, Dr. Cox entered.
He just stood there for a moment, then closed the door and got down at my level. He grabbed my shoulders and I expected a verbal butt-kicking. Instead, he hugged me. Perry Cox. Hugged me. Where's a Rod Sterling monologue when you need one?
He stayed quiet and just sat there with me practically in his lap, crying into his scrubs like Eliot after a bad date.
"I'm sorry," I managed after a while, pulling out of his hug. I took a deep breath, smoothed back my hair, and grabbed one of the boxes of Kleenex in the closet. He let me blow my nose before standing up.
"C'mon, I just ended our shifts; let's go drink."
I followed him in silence to the bar across the street where he ordered a scotch and I had an appletini. Once we were sitting down, he gave me the Perry Look.
"First things first: You never tell anybody about this or the supply closet, got it?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Now, you don't have to talk about it if—"
"Heart attack. He was almost fifty. My brother never showed up, an evil woman told my grandma, and I can't figure out why I miss a guy who was never around for me."
Of course, he had me back up and I tell him everything. Everything I could remember, and I may have tossed in a little fiction (for example, the woman who told my grandmother may not actually have horns coming out of her head and spend her Sundays at black Mass). He listened, but didn't say much. There wasn't much he could say.
After a few hours, I lost my thunder. The day had drained me. Also, I was drunk. I know he must have taken me home and had somebody put me to bed, because that's where I woke up the next morning. Oddly, neither Turk nor Carla questioned me. I get the feeling he was instrumental in that, too.
Naturally, after some more time, I told Turk and Carla. I think he was a little angry that I didn't tell him before, and I can understand. He's my best friend; why shouldn't I trust him with something like that? Carla cried, empathizing with me. I let Eliot know, too. She cried, but that's pretty common.
There's a picture of my dad sitting, his elbows on the table and hands clasped in front of him. He's not smiling or frowning, just looking at the camera, waiting for the picture to be over. It was easy enough to not notice when he was alive, but now it feels like…like he's sort of still alive. Of course I know he's not. It's a picture. But the gaze is intense, as if he's looking at me. Sometimes I talk to it. Sometimes I just stare at it.
They say that time heals all wounds.
I used to think that was a load of crap.
That's like saying, "one day, you'll be all better." Except, that healed wound still has scar tissue. A scab would probably be a better analogy; occasionally I pick at it and it bleeds. But I don't stop being sad—it's not like I ever get happy thinking about my dad's death. Instead, I think time lessens all wounds. That's why I can look back with resigned sadness and acceptance. I love him, but he's dead. And week by week, month by month, that becomes less of a shock to remember. One day, maybe, it won't give me a hollow feeling in my chest. One day, I hope, his picture won't only remind that he died, but that he lived. One day, however, this will always remain true:
I miss my dad.