You wake up and you remember. And before you even take your first waking breath of the day, you are in tears.
This passes, and you steel yourself for your day. Puffy, pink, and squinty eyed. But moving forward.
You lean over to wash your face, and suddenly, you have to sit on the edge of the cool, white porcelain tub. You are sobbing so hard your legs simply will not support you.
It comes suddenly, and it's as if the entire fabric of your universe is rent in two.
Grief sucker punches you.
You can think you're composed enough to make a phone call. And you can get as far as, "I have some sad news. . ."
When suddenly, your throat will close. You pull for air, and it comes out in a sighing wail.
You manage a, "My dad. . ."
And you hear an, "Oh, Lisa. . ."
And then you are both crying, each on your own end of the phone.
I cannot say what I was least prepared for, because I was least prepared for all of it. But what I had no idea how to anticipate was the grief on the other end of the phone.
We're all devastate. We all loved him. We have all lost.
But I, I feel like I understand it better than many others. I know there were so many layers, so many traumas, so many struggles.
And so I can genuinely feel in my heart that while this is horrendous for us, while selfishly I want him here, I think it is fair. I think it is better for him. I don't just say this; I believe it with all my heart and being.
But for some, this comes as a sharp, raw slice. You can hear the bewilderment, you can hear the jagged tear. You can feel the rip of the red, red wound in their voices.
This visceral reaction, this outpouring of grief back in my direction, for this I was entirely unprepared.