I was feeling all peaceful and mushy yesterday, until I spoke to his damned caregiver. Let me say: if he did not deliberately engineer his own death just so he wouldn’t have to listen to another word out of that woman’s mouth, I will be very, very surprised. During the course of our “conversation” (for the record, the only reason I called her was to find out what we should do about his motel room) she recited, unprompted and as if by script, a list of “wonderful” things about my father, including the fact that he had just been approved for Section 8 housing and would have been moving into his own one bedroom apartment on Monday, if he hadn’t gone and kicked the bucket; how “funny” and “kind” he was (to which I say HA); and how sweet she thought it was that he kept every single letter my sister ever sent him. NICE.
Then she wanted to know when the last time I’d seen him was, and when I said “Oh, about 12 years ago” she was all “Oh! Oh! My!” like she hadn’t realized she was talking to Antichrist Incarnate. Dude: whatever. WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME ANOTHER STORY ABOUT MY DEAD FATHER’S GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR? Which she did, because the woman could not stop talking. And then she wanted to know where his memorial would be, and when I was arranging it. DO THE WORDS MIND YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS MEAN ANYTHING TO YOU? Not that I’m bitter. But I don’t need some stranger with a crappy career telling me I’m a bad person because I don’t want to arrange a fucking memorial for my dead abusive father. SO SORRY. DOES THAT GO AGAINST YOUR WORLDVIEW?
I am misusing the caps lock. If you are wondering: yes, I am shouting. For no reason. Because why do I care whether my father kept all of my sister’s letters and none of mine? (These were all old letters, obviously.) It’s not surprising; he’s always held me to a higher standard than her, so I’m sure the fact that I refused to play his games was a bigger deal for him. Or not. It’s possible, you know, that he just didn’t like me. WHATEVER. Dead now.
I wonder what stage of grief this is?