What's this all about?
Friday before last, I received the news that the husband of a dear colleague-turned-friend 9a mother figure if you will), J., had suddenly passed away. He went to bed for a midday nap because he was feeling tired and never woke up. He was in his mid-fifties, enjoying their newly found freedom now that all the kids had moved out, rebuilding an oldtimer for him and J. to cruise around Europe with. It makes me sad that nothing of all those plans will come true for them. J. lost her husband and their children their father.
I lost my father, 21 years ago last March. I was 16, my dad had just turned 42 the month before. I still remember my sister and I teasing him because he had trouble getting up the stairs because of his worn-out knees, and how we laughed when he grumbled about having done something wrong in a past life because he ended up with a house full of cheeky girls.
I still remember how he told me to ease on my mum because she and I were, and still are, like oil and water. I remember rolling my eyes at him because the fights were never my fault (duh) and him sighing and telling me to try and bite my tongue for a change.
I remember saying an absent-minded goodnight when he left for his night shift. He never made it to work that night. We got the call at one in the morning, his boss asking where my dad was and my mum arguing that he'd left hours ago. His car was found by the side of the road a few hours later at day-break, previously hidden from view as it is an unlit stretch of road. He died on impact, that's what they told us, at least, and I prefer to believe that than the alternative.
I've mourned the loss of my dad, I really have. I went through all the phases, rebelled something fierce against mother, and left home and the suffocating sadness that lingered there the second I could. But in the end, I can say that I did accept the harsh reality that dad wouldn't come back home ever again, that I won't get to have a better goodbye. I had a bit of a setback a few years ago when the realisation that he was longer out of my life than he'd been in it hit me like a load of bricks. (my sisters went through something similar over the years)
So, why am I dredging this all up again? What is it about J.'s husband's death that's rattled me so? Why?
God, I wish I knew. I hate that it has turned me in this emotional, teary-eyed bint. I hate this sadness that's lurking about, more than usual, popping its ugly head soon as the lights go out and I'm left alone with my thoughts. I want it to go away already, let me go on with my life like I've been doing for the last two decades.
Maybe, maybe, writing it out will help.
Please, let it help.