I Have No Idea

I have no idea what you’re dealing with.

Or what you’ve dealt with everyday for the last 6 weeks.

Or what you had to handle when you went home to visit. And you went to see your new niece, who is simply lovely.

And you had to leave her earlier than you wanted because you received word that he was sick.

So, you go to the hospital for 16 hours a day. Making sure the nurses are doing their jobs, even though you’re not a nurse, but you could be after the 16-hour shifts you pulled.

I can relate to being at the hospital for 16 hours a day. And being a pseudo-nurse. And how time seemed to stand still.

And the being afraid part; I can relate to that, too. Afraid that the person you love more than anyone else in the world, the person you’ve depended on for forever, is sick and you’re afraid he’s going to die.

And you’re pissed off because you feel helpless. And you question why this is happening; he’s a good person. Why is he so goddamned sick?

I had that experience with my husband. He recovered.

But your Dad died.

And I’m sorry.

I have no idea what it feels like to loose a parent. And the child in me hopes to never know. But the adult in me knows I will eventually.

And I think about how we are at two completely different places in our lives: one of us dealing with death and the other dealing with creating a life.

And I know we’re both afraid of the future.

I send you positive energy all the time. Sometimes, I dedicate my yoga practices to you. I did when your Dad was sick, too.

Sometimes, when I speak to my Dad on the phone, and he goes off on a tangent, and then a tangent, and he keeps tangenting on and on, and it takes him about 10 minutes to get back to the original point, I get frustrated and roll my eyes. I think, How in the goddamn does Princess Diana relate to Hemingway? Where is he going with this one?

And, then I remember that I have the luxury of talking to my Dad. And I remember that I truly have no idea what you’re feeling. And I tell myself to be patient with my Dad. I remind myself that I need to be thankful for the time I have with him; because it may be the last time I talk to him.

I didn’t know your Dad that well; I only met him a couple of times. But he was hott. He was tall, and had grey hair, and a handle-bar moustache, and a beard, and he wore glasses. And he walked with a cane, but it was this cane that was distinguished. It wasn’t one of those canes that you buy at Walgreen’s. It was cool.

I know he would’ve taken me in if I needed a place to sleep. Unless I was on crack. He may have taken me in, but then he would’ve said, “Amelia, you really need to put down the crack.” And I would’ve done it, because I respected him.

And I so appreciate your Dad. Because he created you. And you are truly amazing.

I love you, Mel.