I think I've got my grieving out of order. Wait... There is no freaking "order" when it comes to grief. It looks different and feels different and sounds different for everyone. Sometimes it's wailing. Sometimes it's silent tears. Sometimes it's belly laughing over a great memory. Sometimes it's pure confusion.
I. Am. Pissed. For the past few days I've felt this anger, this rage, rising up. Tonight I feel pretty ready to blow. Legal matters have come up again pertaining to matters my dad handled that no one else touched, paperwork and files and things he kept in his head. It is shit that no one should have to deal with. But that's what happens when people die suddenly I guess - the mess is still being cleaned up and waded through years later.
I wrote some thoughts a while back about how when I went to the crash site, on the gravel runway where Dad's heart stopped beating and his plane smashed to the earth, there was chips of blue paint everywhere. Three months after the accident, sizable pieces of blue paint from his plane were everywhere. It made me happy and heartbroken to see it. He had been there. He had left his mark. And now he was gone.
I also wrote how the wreckage from the plane stayed around months after the crash, and reminded me how we are still dealing with the aftermath of Dad's death, the messiness of it all. And I would have thought, after two years, we'd be done digging through files and paperwork, we'd be done with the death certificates and the heir-ship documents and the bullshit that comes with sudden death.
I don't know how families of people without life insurance do it. I have no idea how people find the time or afford the legal counsel of attorneys and accountants and all kinds of junk it takes to settle matters after someone dies, someone who owns a business and has utilities in his name and titles to cars and endless, endless items. I should be on a commercial for life insurance. And updated wills. And that you should have a stinking alternate contact on your AT&T bill.
When I called to update my mom's TV/phone/wireless internet account, they want you to fax a death certificate and notarized form and all kinds of stuff to them before anyone, even the deceased's WIFE, is authorized to do anything. But don't worry, they'll take the dead man's payment, you betcha. It really gets me going. But...you know what I do? I learned from a wise friend who has to deal with this crap, too. I say that I am Tom Robinson. Yep. Works like a charm, time after time. I call with the correct account number and 4 digit password and when they say who am I speaking with I say Tom Robinson. They call me m'am in a questioning voice and I just keep right on talking. I don't feel bad about it. My dad hated red tape and silly rules and I know he's in Heaven shaking his head at stupid AT&T policies, too. Actually, he's not. His eyes are on eternal matters now. They don't give two cents about AT&T policies up in Heaven. I'm sure of it.
There are worse things in the world than what we're going through. And that really pisses me off, because you know what? This sucks. Completely and totally sucks. No one should go through worse than this.
He should be here. He should be with my mom. He should be here to meet his grandchildren. He should still be running the company and Gentry learning from him, not Gentry learning as-he-goes business sense that is far beyond his years. He should be here, for a thousand reasons.
I opened a cabinet at my dad's office that is now my brother's. There, staring me in the face, were some of Dad's old running shoes. Even the Asics logo is screaming "he should be here!!!!" Seeing those shoes made me furious, for a number of reasons... one, regretting all the times I had put off running with him because he was so much faster than me and annoyingly peppy/talkative while jogging. Why couldn't he be out of breath like me? Just once? And it made me angry for Gentry, sweet Gentry who often seems so tough, that he hadn't gotten rid of Dad's shoes. Here we are, two years later, and those shoes are way too small for tall Gentch, those shoes are not needed. But there they are, tucked in the cabinet, a reminder of who's shoes he's filling every day at that office. If I had stood there two more seconds, I feel certain I would have chunked those effing shoes across the room and smack into a wall. GET BACK HERE AND WEAR THESE SHOES!!!!!! I wanted to irrationally scream. Instead I went to the restroom, took deep breaths, and texted my husband so he could talk me off the ledge like a normal person.
I know life is weird as we approach September 8. I don't know why. I don't remember feeling this way last year, but maybe I did and just can't remember. I am dreading the day. I just want it to be gone. I don't want to think about it.
And yet I dwell on it. Me and my anger, we stew. We wander. We slide away from the grace and grip of God and we let the questions in.
I want to know so much. I want to know who passed the inspection of the airplane. I want to know if anyone else has lost their life from this type of engine malfunction. If so, I want to console their families. I want to know who carried Dad in to the Llano hospital from the ambulance that brought him there. I want to know when they moved his body to the morgue in Austin county. I want to know who took off his watch and wedding ring and cut the corner of his driver's license before they gave it to my mom. I want to know why.
I want to know how his stupid freaking iphone survived the plane crash without. a. single. scratch. It was tucked in the pocket of his khaki shorts and it went in the ambulance with him - his body couldn't make it, but the iphone, no problem. I looked at that phone for weeks after the accident just wondering, please, could we strike some deal with God and exchange the phone for his body. Smash the phone, save the man. Please.
I am so, so, so very angry. Angry that he went flying that day. Angry that there wasn't a thunderstorm, that he couldn't have just sold the plane to the two buyers without flying it. They were using it for parts, if I remember correctly. They weren't going to fly it anyway. Why did he have to? It had been safe for hundreds and hundreds of joy rides with surely a hundred people with him. It had flown from Kingsland to Montana and back without a hitch. Why, why now? Why three months from my wedding? Why just a year after he met Drew? Sweet Drew who deserves a dad, and only the best. Why any freaking time? Why?
The anger feels good, I do admit. It's kind of like a long run where you get a really good stitch in your side and it hurts to breathe but it feels right, it feels good.
I am not worried this anger will last forever. I know the thankful heart, the one mostly at peace with Dad being gone, the heart that knows I can't change anything and that God is still near and surrounding us with love, that heart will return I'm sure. This anger won't last forever. And hopefully, I won't hit anyone until it passes.
And if I do, I'll keep an eye out for Ouiser Boudreaux from Steel Magnolias. If you've never seen it, you should fix that, and quickly. Sally Fields is completely losing her composure at her daughter's funeral, and wants to hit something. Here, M'Lynn. Hit this. We'll sell t-shirts that say "I slapped Ouiser Boudreaux."
