Number 467

This is my 467th blog post (minus one or two that I deleted or never posted). And the revelation of the week is... my parents are mortal.

I have come to terms with the fact that young people, sometimes even my friends, die and will someday die. Just this week at church, our community buried a 31 year old man.

I recognize that I will lose my pets, those companions who are my day in and day out family as a single young woman living 14 hours away from my closest relative.

But now I am wrestling with the fact... the fact... that I will someday lose my parents.

My father had a heart attack. Tuesday night the ER doctors put in a stint to open up the 99% blockage they found, and are currently assessing the damage done to the heart. Dr. Pittman, my younger sister, helps me understand it all.

My mom and dad were supposed to fly to visit me next Thursday. I'm in a play at church and they were going to come see it and see me and Austin. With the exception of one day after a wedding I attended in Missouri, I haven't seen my dad since Christmas and he hasn't been to visit Austin since last year. My mom makes it down more often, but even her I haven't seen since March. Needless to say, I'm sad. I'm sad because my dad is sick. I'm sad because my mom is stressed. I'm sad because my sisters and I are scared.

It's not that he had a heart attack. It's not the fact that he'll be missing me in a performance for the first time in 30 years, it's the realization that it won't always be the same. My mom and dad won't always be around to call up or brag to or joke with or miss terribly or buy presents for or vent to or reminisce with or be encouraged by...

On a cognitive level, I understand and accept this. But, emotionally, I am not ready. I am not ready to let go of my two best friends who have been by my side for 30 years, two months and 27 days.

Fortunately, I don't have to be. My dad is still with us, he's feeling good(ish), so they tell me, and we probably have many more years of memory making to do. (Insert prayer).

So while I'm sad, I remain thankful. And I do everything I can to distract myself from thinking about this new revelation and how scared and sad my dad must feel too. I go over to Cinda and David's (whose jobs are flexible enough to entertain their friend for an afternoon), I spend the night at the Nethercuts so it's feels like I'm with family. I clean the house to allow my subconscious to exert some sort of control over something, I invite people over to play cards and games, I even go to rehearsal though the last thing I want to do is think about a play...

And now, for the first time since I heard about what happened Tuesday night, I'm alone and it sucks. While I would love to put it eloquently and less vulgarly (hell, i don't even know if that's a word), I don't have it in me to write bravely and with inspiration.

It sucks.

It sucks.

And I hate it. There, I said it. I hate it. Just in case I haven't said it before, I hate it. I hate death and disease and illness and sin. I hate it all. That's why I don't watch the news, that's why I don't take the paper, that's why I don't go see scary movies. I hate it. I hate murder and rape and war and hatred and poverty and disease and all the sad sad things in the world that I, we, can't control.

I like life so much. I love life so much that when it is sad or corrupt, it hurts so bad.

And I'm hurting right now. And my dad is hurting and my mom is hurting and my sisters are hurting. And unfortunately, we're not the only ones.

(Although I might be the only one awake at 1:32 in the morning).

My peace I bring to you.
My peace I give you.
Peace, peace, please bring peace.
This is my prayer.
This is my prayer.

Amen.