I've been thinking a lot recently about afterward. I've been denying that it's going to happen for so long; I've been telling myself I could have years. But now, I know it's months. Years, I wished for, hoped for, prayed for. How feeble are we, against life? Hoping against death. Praying against mortality. Months, nonetheless. Months. We know he will feel ill in September. It won't be too much longer after that. I might get another Christmas with him. Not "I". He might get another Christmas. Christmas marks a birth; now I use it to measure how long before a death. In any case, I now have to face the fact that my father is mortal, after all.
God.
What then?
I am totally unprepared, of course. Despite what I say, I am in denial. See how quickly I change the subject. Watch my conversations with people- especially him, but with everyone to a degree- to see how many twists I turn to avoid the subject of death.
So what then?
What when he dies?
I will probably be in a hospice, or the Marsden. If it's the Marsden, I'll be sitting outside the Chapel. More religion, more death. But it'll probably be a hospice. I haven't seen the hospice yet. So I'll imagine it's the Marsden.
I'll already be crying. And then, I'll know, and I will scream, and I will shake, and it will be unbearable. I will scream and cry and cry and cry. Then what? How do I stop crying and screaming? How do I accept the tea someone will undoubtedly bring me; shaking in my hands, but warm and sweet and something. How do I manage to walk, to get on a train, or in a car?
How will I sleep? What will I dream of?
And in the morning?
Crying still? Or none? Denial? More screaming? Moping, listening to music he listened to? What? Will I eat? What? Who will cook? I won;t be at school; I wouldn't make it out the door. How do I tell people? Who do I tell? I can't email, or go online; I will have to phone people. Or let them sit in ignorance, worrying slightly.
And then? Weeks later? How often do I cry? Do I seek counseling? When do I go back to school? How will I ever stop screaming, ever stop shaking?
Months later, years later. What do I do then? Will I still have nightmares? Will I still cry? What? Will I be messed up for the rest of my life?
The problem seems to be a lack of etiquette, and a lack of experience. How, once again, feeble of me to worry about this. But of course it is the trivialities I worry about now. I won't be able to afterward. Life itself may seem a triviality afterward. How will I worry about tea?
God.
This is going to be hard.
It has been hard before. All the memories now are jumbled. I couldn't tell you what happened before what. I could tell you details: the last lesson the day I found out he was going to die, the day of the week that was. The Christmas lights on the streets near the Marsden when I was visiting him daily. What I wore then; the music I listened to on the way there, what on the way back. The colour of the rehab room (for patients recovering for operations). I could recite the Marsden's café menu. What was on the radio when he was in Charring Cross. Trivia. Of course, trivia. How can I cope with the whole thing? I can only cope with small details. Tears. Individual tumors, not Cancer. Never death. I can never understand, can never cope with his death.
Thankyou, God, for trivia.