Transitions

It's in the natural order of things to lose a parent. Especially once we've already navigated our way through a good chunk of life, and are fully capable of living day to day without them.

My friend's dad passed away last night. I wrote about him -- and my own father -- in this space about a week ago. In the days since, my friend has traveled back and forth to Cleveland, trying her best to comfort and gain comfort from her mother and her siblings. And hoping, no doubt, to be there at the right moment, to be there holding her dad's hand when the time came. That last part didn't work out so well; she was off by a day or two. It bothers her, even though she knows it shouldn't.

I will never forget the fog I entered the moment my father died. I, like my friend, had traveled back and forth out of town, hoping to be there at the right moment. My timing was off by mere hours. I had flown back to Chicago from New York that morning, knowing I could not stay away from my young children indefinitely while I waited for the mysteries of nature to take their course, and thinking I'd still be able to see him one more time. That afternoon, he died while my mother held his hand with one of hers and, with the other, held the phone to his ear so I could tell him how much I loved him. Dumb luck that I had chosen that moment to call.

Great comforter that I am, I jumped in the car at midnight to go give my friend a hug. An I get it hug, a welcome to the club hug. "Open the fucking gate," was what I texted when I arrived at her house, annoyed that she thought it was somehow more important for her to try to get some sleep than deal with the crazed pain in the ass waiting in her driveway. But she, and another friend, had forced themselves upon me the day my father died, and it was important for me to return the favor, no matter how outrageous the hour.

We sat together briefly, talking about the inexplicable pain of losing a parent. The feeling that your roots have somehow been snipped, that your legs have been cut off at the knees. It may not be as tragic as the death of a younger person, but it is devastatingly sad and you feel like a piece of you is actually gone; you wonder how you can continue to get through life without the person who brought you here in the first place. Inevitably, you manage, but, for a long time, you feel like a lost child, no matter how old you are.

My friend will learn, as the rest of us in "the club" have, that they never really leave you. They're parents, for goodness sake. They are always available for a good chat, even if all they can do is listen.