BLOG ENTRY THREE: (So, I looked up how to blog and apparently I can do it however I want to. This time around, I’m going to tell you a story.)
I walked home from school about three years ago to find my drunk father passed out on the couch. (This was not out of the norm; I’ve seen him drunk plenty of times.) I proceeded to pull the blanket off the recliner’s back and lay it over him as I did every time. But something was off that day.
His loud, distinctive snoring was silent.
I poked a finger under his nose, feeling for the fan of breath that would signal one’s breathing.
Nothing.
I called Mom and she came home as fast as she could and then an ambulance showed up and took Dad to the hospital. (I’m not sure why; he was already dead.) But just as hospitals do, they came into the waiting room where we were and told us he was dead, confirming what I already knew.
I think that was when I decided to start telling the truth every minute of my life. To hold nothing back. Every single day these doctors and nurses had to tell families what they least wanted to hear: that someone was dead or dying or going to die soon. And by telling the families this, they also had to tell themselves that they had failed yet another patient. Failing a patient was like dipping a finger into a smooth surfaced bowl of water, sending ripples into the lives of every person who knew them.
But on that day, I had lost someone who was nothing to me. My dad was not someone I looked up to or loved, although I had to claim I loved him because he was my father and in this society, you are obligated to love your family no matter if you really do or not.
His funeral was five days later. The only people who showed up were Mom, Dad’s parents, and me. (I found it kind of sad that Dad’s bowl of water was so little. But, I guess that’s life.)
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The Honest Ramblings of Ophelia Tombstone
Humor[on hold] BLOG ENTRY ONE: My therapist told me I needed an "outlet" for my "anger issues." But I am not an angry person, just an honest one.
