There is a room in my mom’s house called ‘the office.’ When I was really sick in January and February I spent most of my time here. It’s a small square room that has two walls of windows, a bible on the window sill, and a few shelves of books about botany and psychology and other things I know very little about. I feel a connection to this room and it’s always been my favorite place in the house. Sometimes I feel I could sit by this window, watch the birds flirt and the trees flutter and not leave for a couple of years. I would think I would grow tired of this room because I spent so many depressing sick days here in the winter, just wishing to feel better, waiting to get back into the world. I was certainly not a part of the world then. Or it didn’t feel like I was. But somehow I still love this room. It’s the first place I go in the morning. It’s probably the windows. I’m always drawn to them. I make my coffee, take my pills, and sit for as long as I can– Until the phone rings or someone walks in the door or Monty paws at me to go outside. I don’t play music or have a TV on. It’s just quiet and it’s really nice.
This morning started in a peculiar way. First I woke up with a killer migraine at 6 (that’s not the peculiar part.) I took my meds and went back to sleep. At around 9 I woke up to an intense knock at the door. Someone who was knocking with PURPOSE or anger or both. Since it takes me like 10 years to get my bearings in the morning there were a few rounds of purposeful knocks before I made it to the door. When I got there no one was at the door anymore so I walked down the porch steps to see a Sheriffs car outside. My first thought: Fuck, my stepdad died. OK so I may have a little PTSD because last time a sheriff called our house it was to tell my mom her husband had died. The truth of the matter is, I prepare myself for news like that all the time. It was just some idle Tuesday that my mom called barely able to get the words out through her tears that Roger had died in his hotel room the night before. He had some kind of heart attack in his sleep. After you get news like that, the fear or the readiness to receive traumatic news follows you everywhere. So back to the sheriffs car: Fuck, Marc died. The guys face was so solemn and serious, I clenched my hands and prepared for the worst. “Hi ma’mm, is Marc home?” PHEW! MARC WAS ALIVE! He may be going to jail but nonetheless, alive! Anyway it turned out to be no big deal. There is this neighbor near us with a dog that keeps running onto our property and barks all day long blah blah blah, Marc left them a note, and for some reason they called the sheriff to make sure we weren’t going to kill them or something. I don’t know. I went back inside after I discovered no one had died and no one was going to jail. So that was 9 am.
After that my mom and I were up and my migraine was still trying so I took another dose of meds and drank coffee and talked with her about dreams, death, life, all the goodies. I love waking up this way. (To coffee and philosophy, not migraines and cops) I could sit and drink coffee and talk about life and death all day long and be perfectly content. We were talking about my dad and my mom said “I think the best part of the experience with your dad is that he not only showed you how to live, he showed you how to die.” And she was right. My dad did both with ease, honesty, pureness and beauty. I only had him for 12 years, but it’s incredible with how much he left me with.
I guess I need to get back to errands and studying and emails and the junk that clouds up our days. Anyway it’s been an eventful morning, but Marc is here, having a business meeting with my mom, and I’m in the office watching the birds and the trees from my favorite spot. Not too bad.
Health Happiness and No More Dead Dads!