Daddy.

Warning: Serious blog coming. Hey, isn't this blogging thing supposed to be cathartic?

Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my father's death. One year ago tonight, I was sleeping quite nicely when the phone rang at 3:20-something. It was my sister telling me Daddy was in the emergency room and wouldn't make it through the day. I was up. Sister was on her way to get me for the two hour drive to my parent's town. I made one quick call to Boyfriend who, God bless him, was standing in front of me about 6 minutes later. I had an overnight bag on my bed and I have no idea what I was putting in it.

Sister was there about 15 minutes later. I climbed into the car with my overnight bag and bag Boyfriend packed. (Cold prime rib, stale Girl Scout cookies and a thermos of coffee. So cute.) Sister took my hand and we drove.

As we approached town, we learned via cell phone that Mother had gone home to get some things and we should pick her up and bring her with us to the hospital. We did and I drove like a bat out of hell to the hospital. I dropped Mother and Sister off at the front doors for there was no place to park. I then circled and circled up the top of the parking garage, parked, opened the door and ran. No time for elevator, down, down, down the stairs and through the doors.

I ran through the hall looking frantically at each sign. A kindly female janitor asked what room I was looking for and ran with me to the correct stairwell. She, forever, has my gratitude. I ran down the stairs and into my father's room.

It was like slamming into a wall. The run had been noisy, my shoes on the floor, my pulse in my ears, the people and hospital noises and then, silence. The room was dark and silent. My family gathered around my suddenly small frail father.

Forget the rest. Nothing to tell. He died. We watched. The duty of every child. The only moment in my 34 years that I definitively knew that I would never get to be okay again.

One year. Gets easier, right? But he is still the person I want to tell everything to. Every experience, every triumph, every failure, every day, my brain still cries "Tell Daddy." Seek his approval, beg for his laugh, search his eyes for a glimmer of pride. Push yourself, break yourself, beat yourself for the chance to hear a "How good is that." I knew he loved me always and completely. He never was unkind or cold. He was loving and supportive and smart and funny and we always wanted more, more, more. He was a drug. He was my true north.

All hope of living to please him is gone and there is definitely a hole. I've turned to my poor brother, his spitting image. I search his eyes for approval and pride but he gives it too easily. There is no challenge. Daddy was his drug too and he thinks we, the girls, his sisters will be okay if he gives what we sought. Doesn't work that way.

My God. My life is a Tennessee Williams play.

Goodnight. I'm turning the phone off.