I flew into LA on Thursday night and was planning on going hiking with my friend Tim on Friday morning around 10a. I texted him from the runway when I landed and said my plane had been late and that we should plan to meet around 11a instead, but that I would text him when I woke up to confirm. He said okay.
The next morning, I woke up, poured some coffee, and texted Tim. This is what my text said:
"I'm okay!!!"
As soon as I pressed send I started laughing hysterically. Still in a pre-coffee morning haze, I had substituted "okay" for "awake." I had meant to let him know I was awake and starting to make the movements towards being ready to meet.
When Tim and I did meet up, we laughed about my typo. We imagined a world in which I just walked around shouting "I'm okay!!!" or randomly texting people to let them know that was the case. And as funny as it was, I also wondered if there was a bit of truth in my lapsus linguae.
Was I finally starting to feel like I was okay? The first 6 weeks after your death, 7 weeks, 8 weeks, I don't know, I was not okay. No part of okay and I had anything in common. But, now? It's not that I don't miss you, it's not that I don't grieve intensely and get overcome at least once a day. It's not that I even understand or accept what happened. It's just, that, well, I sort of feel okay.
My friend Lindsay's father passed away about a month after you did. They had more time to adjust to the situation - about seven months of knowing about his illness rather than the 7 days that we had knowing about yours - but it's hard any way it happens. I texted Lindsay this morning to ask how she was doing. She responded "One of the strangest things for me to admit is that I'm okay... not totally sad all the time."
And it seemed like she felt guilty about it. And I do too. I had dinner with my friend Matt tonight. Matt lives in London, but comes out to NYC quite a bit for work. We met 16 years ago, lost touch for ages, and now see each other about 5 or 6 times a year. The last time I saw him was in the end of October, when I was in London.
It didn't occur to me until we sat down at the restaurant tonight that the only item I had to present in terms of "catching up" since I'd last seen him was your death. And I was not interested in presenting that particular item. I skirted around it for a minute or two, tried to draw out the story of the BBC show I was doing before you got sick, of my trip to LA, but then there was a big hole between mid December and last week. And really only one thing has happened in that hole, and it would be very weird not to say it, and so I sort of blurted it out. I said, well, I don't know if I told you (I knew I hadn't), but my Dad passed away sort of suddenly in December.
The reaction from people, when you say this, is usually one of shock and horror. They want to ask questions. I brushed the whole thing off very quickly and said "we don't have to talk about it." Matt said, but of course we can if you want to. And I said, no, I don't. And I changed the subject.
That's the first time I've done that, Dad. The first time I saw your death as an inconvenience, an obstruction to talking about happier and funnier things. I'm sorry. I'm not okay, and then I am okay, and sometimes I just don't want to talk about it. It feels wrong and disrespectful, but I don't mean it that way.
I love you and I always will.
a
The next morning, I woke up, poured some coffee, and texted Tim. This is what my text said:
"I'm okay!!!"
As soon as I pressed send I started laughing hysterically. Still in a pre-coffee morning haze, I had substituted "okay" for "awake." I had meant to let him know I was awake and starting to make the movements towards being ready to meet.
When Tim and I did meet up, we laughed about my typo. We imagined a world in which I just walked around shouting "I'm okay!!!" or randomly texting people to let them know that was the case. And as funny as it was, I also wondered if there was a bit of truth in my lapsus linguae.
Was I finally starting to feel like I was okay? The first 6 weeks after your death, 7 weeks, 8 weeks, I don't know, I was not okay. No part of okay and I had anything in common. But, now? It's not that I don't miss you, it's not that I don't grieve intensely and get overcome at least once a day. It's not that I even understand or accept what happened. It's just, that, well, I sort of feel okay.
My friend Lindsay's father passed away about a month after you did. They had more time to adjust to the situation - about seven months of knowing about his illness rather than the 7 days that we had knowing about yours - but it's hard any way it happens. I texted Lindsay this morning to ask how she was doing. She responded "One of the strangest things for me to admit is that I'm okay... not totally sad all the time."
And it seemed like she felt guilty about it. And I do too. I had dinner with my friend Matt tonight. Matt lives in London, but comes out to NYC quite a bit for work. We met 16 years ago, lost touch for ages, and now see each other about 5 or 6 times a year. The last time I saw him was in the end of October, when I was in London.
It didn't occur to me until we sat down at the restaurant tonight that the only item I had to present in terms of "catching up" since I'd last seen him was your death. And I was not interested in presenting that particular item. I skirted around it for a minute or two, tried to draw out the story of the BBC show I was doing before you got sick, of my trip to LA, but then there was a big hole between mid December and last week. And really only one thing has happened in that hole, and it would be very weird not to say it, and so I sort of blurted it out. I said, well, I don't know if I told you (I knew I hadn't), but my Dad passed away sort of suddenly in December.
The reaction from people, when you say this, is usually one of shock and horror. They want to ask questions. I brushed the whole thing off very quickly and said "we don't have to talk about it." Matt said, but of course we can if you want to. And I said, no, I don't. And I changed the subject.
That's the first time I've done that, Dad. The first time I saw your death as an inconvenience, an obstruction to talking about happier and funnier things. I'm sorry. I'm not okay, and then I am okay, and sometimes I just don't want to talk about it. It feels wrong and disrespectful, but I don't mean it that way.
I love you and I always will.
a
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