The Blackest Day
It's been seven years.
The pain has lessened, but the wound is still there, still fresh at times. I still cry.
When my father told me, I remember feeling the walls close in on me for a second. And then I said three stupid words, out of shock. I still feel terrible about uttering them; he was hurting and in his own dark place, reeling with grief and loss. He told me and all I could say was, "are you kidding?"
Of course he wasn't kidding. And I knew it. But shock will make you say stupid things. Dad has since told me he doesn't even remember driving home that day, nor does he remember telling me.
But I do. I remember catching my boyfriend J, (now husband) just before he walked out my front door to go play softball. I remember seeing the darkness shadow his eyes just before I collapsed in his arms, wracked with despair and sobbing like there was no tomorrow.
We left my dad's house, listening to the sounds of him crying on the phone, delivering this most unwelcome news to my brother. I could feel my brother's reaction, though I wasn't the one speaking to him. I knew. I knew his heart was bleeding and shattered like mine was. I knew nothing would ever be the same, for any of us.
J and I drove without words to my grandmother's house. She had to know, and I couldn't bear the thought of telling her over the phone. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do - to break an old woman's heart that way, to see the disbelief in her eyes, the anger, then the sorrow. And then the emptiness through desperate tears. She ran to call her firstborn son. J held me in his arms as we listened to her shouting into the phone, her voice thick with anguish.
After staying with her for a while, trying to comfort her the best I could, J and I left to go back to my dad's. My brother was there by this time, his face red and eyes shining with tears, so much like mine. Dad was pacing the driveway like he did on so many occasions when he needed time to think. But this time, I could tell his mind wasn't there, not really. He was lost in his own grief, closed off from everyone.
Though I knew the reality of the situation, I still had trouble believing it. Surely this couldn't be happening. There had to be some mistake. I started making phone calls. The endless phone calls to friends and family that needed to hear the news. I guess I thought the more I said it, the more my heart would start to accept it.
Those phone calls were torture. I never ever want to be the bearer of that kind of news again. It's absolutely heart-wrenching to hear the pain in the voice of someone you've just saddened in such a way.
Finally, I'd had enough. It was almost midnight and I was emotionally numb. J stayed with me that night, holding me in his arms we slept. His shirt was soaked with my tears throughout the night. I kept waking up and it would all come rushing back, the bitter pain, the agony, the loss. I couldn't control my mind - it kept going back to that moment when my father's words changed my life forever.
Something in me broke that day, the blackest day. I haven't been the same person since, though I've tried.
She was my best friend, my confidante, my mother.
I miss you, Mom.
