Sky box
Saturday, August 18th, 2007I just ate horchata and canoli gelato after witnessing my first A’s game in a sky box but there’s something wrong: my dad died 13 days ago.
I’ve been lost in the hurt. This sadness does not end, it only gets deeper. The shock from the first weeks keeps you somewhat somber and maybe composed, but as the emergency wears off you’re left with the sheer mass of the loss, and you wonder: just how can I get through this? How will I process the mountain of feeling? My head and my heart are not large enough.
I’ve held off mentioning this to the internet, because the weird thing I’ve learned about death is that each person who says s/he’s sorry re-opens the wound. People all around me have been apologizing for my loss, shuffling awkwardly around my desk, clapping me on the shoulder and sighing emptily. Those apologies sting because they re-enforce so well the distance: my world is bowing with pain while yours remains steady, the same, normal.
The A’s went down 9 to 2 but we were sitting in a virtual living room with a mini fridge full of booze. Half the box was girls soccer, the other half were sheepish adults. It cost $750 and included low quality pizza. I didn’t pay a thing though: Dr GTI bought scalped tickets on the BART bridge, then we snuck into the soccer box that happened to include my boss’s girls. “Life is good!” everyone drunk insisted. “Life is good!” they toasted and I nodded, unconvinced so they kept saying it.
My dad was surfing at Seaside, life guard tower 12 when he had a heart attack. His heart was mis-read by a specialist; he had a faulty valve. Now we’re left abruptly confused and each alone, wondering how this feeling will pass. The confusion is massive and it breeds more; my head is turning and I can’t even make plans for tomorrow because the pain in my heart keeps me right here, now and before, as my life and my dad’s play before me and I sift the memories for meaning, try to hold on to everything that’s gone.
