Walking not Talking

Day 19.

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Because a typhoon was passing almost directly overhead, I didn’t get out much. Which meant that I was trapped inside with my thoughts and emotions for most of the day.

In the morning, as the typhoon was still offshore, I took a walk to buy something like food. I stayed mostly dry in the heavily-overcast mist, until one sudden gusty downpour rendered my umbrella useless and me soaked. But I kinda forgot how much fun that can be after the absolute discomfort of it fades.

It was Saturday, but most of the shops were closed for the approaching storm. Fortunately, some convenience stores were still open. (They, too, closed later, not at all long before the storm started getting angry and close.)

In the mid-afternoon, I went out again. I should’ve bought more things, but I’m glad I didn’t. Boredom-eating has always been a problem for me. I managed, even with the primarily-sedentary day, to lose .1kg. Almost certainly because, as midnight approached and the storm moved on, I got out and walked for about 90 minutes

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I slept late last night and woke up early this morning to watch the Astros get absolutely shellacked by the Yankees. I think I slept for 3 hours. I’m not sure. But it wasn’t enough.

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Last night, as the storm was at its blustery and rainy loudest, I managed to fall asleep for maybe 5 minutes. In that 5 minutes a dream started. I was in a room, someone mentioned to me that a man in an adjacent room sounded like my dad but wasn’t. I could hear his voice – my dad’s own voice – and I collapsed into tears.

That was the extent of the dream as I jolted awake, surprised to find that I wasn’t actually crying. But tears didn’t matter because the effect was the same. I felt crushed, just as if I’d been actually crying. Many hours later, it felt as if I’d cried. A brutal dream, an unpleasant experience, and another lesson learned: the physical effects can follow psychological trauma just as they do physical expressions of grief.

Dreams are brain garbage, but this was surely another case of my brain teaching itself about this new world I find myself, unhappily, in. I hope it was sufficient. I don’t want another such experience.

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I still haven’t returned to looking at e-mails. I need to do this, but it’s just too soon. I’m worried because I’m waiting to do it in the space between whenever the knife-edge of memory isn’t so sharp, but before my inherent laziness takes over and it never gets done.

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I asked my aunt about the cremation and the ETA for his ashes. I’d been putting it off for obvious reasons, but also out of fear that it may expose a fait accompli on the part of my family. It doesn’t seem to have, and I’m not sure what percentage I’d attach to the possibility, but I didn’t exactly want to deal with it.

She said, he as been cremated and his death certificate has been issued. But his ashes are out of the way for her, so she won’t get to them for a while. I’m in no hurry.

Knowing it’s done – that no real part of him remains – that is absolutely brutal.

I needed to ask. I got my answer. It was not a good time to have gotten the answer I needed. It was the answer I expected, give or take, but it fucking sucked. Still sucks.

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The same aunt asked if I’d seen his obituary, written by another aunt, and published in their hometown newspaper. I hadn’t, so I went and read it.

It’s filled with factual inaccuracies, is badly written and spelled, includes a couple problems he'd find funny, but gets the general sketch about right and I’m glad I didn’t have to do it, so I’ll deal with its problems. I just really wish they’d sent it to me to give it a once-over. I could’ve corrected its mistakes and errors, provided a couple other important and worthwhile details. Primarily, it bothers me as a reference, which is the purpose obituaries serve: to provide a snapshot of a life and contain biographical information for anyone who may one day go looking for it..

The worst mistake is they got his age is wrong. The one thing they didn’t need to check with anyone. All it required was simple math. This actually bothers me. It implies a lack of care the obit’s existence should demonstrate the presence of.

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I’ve still only gotten two cards. I assume that’s the total number. Again, mostly I just wondered how many, if any, I’d get.

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My loneliness is killing me. There’s no one to talk with and I can’t handle this continuous and continuing suffocation.

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It was Day 19. And I’m tired.

終