I got a call this afternoon.
“Hi Mr. DeMarco. It’s Lori from Berkeley Springs. It’s not an emergency.”
I always appreciate they lead with the ‘not an emergency’ part.
“I wanted to call and tell you Helen has shingles. Did she have chicken pox as a kid?”
I have no clue. I assume so. She was hell-bent on Matt and I having playdates with the kids in our neighborhood who got chicken pox first, anxious for us to get it out of the way.
“Mr. DeMarco, we are going to isolate Helen for now. She started on medication. It’s a 7-day supply, she should be fine after that.”
I ask if she is in pain or is it itchy.
“Nothing seems to be scratchy, and there doesn’t seem to be any pain, nothing seems to hurt.”
The nurse ends the call with reassuring and kinds words. They always do. My mind started wandering after ‘scratchy’. I’m in another place in my head. I mumble a thank you and a bye.
I’m in my head, thinking of what my Mom will look like when I see her over the Labor Day weekend. I wonder what we will talk about. More accurately, what will I talk to her about? There have been a lot of changes recently.
It’s 3:30am. Eliza woke up from a bad dream. I had her crawl into bed with Katie and I. She is asleep between us with her little knees in my back. I can’t get back to sleep. I keep repeating over and over in my head, “nothing seems to be scratchy, and nothing seems to hurt.”
From my side of the bed I can look out past the balcony. I can see the wind blowing the leaves of our breadfruit tree. My bad dream hits. I panic and get hot. My mouth goes dry. It’s the situational-sadness that jumps up into your throat and you can’t talk, you can’t describe it. It just chokes you.
I’m glad Katie and Eliza are asleep. I feel like I now have time to feel this way. I’m isolated.
It’s my bad dream. My parents are both gone, one to death, and one to disease. And then the question hits.
Do I tell my Mom that my Dad died?
Do I tell her he is gone? Do I tell her the father of her boys is gone?
How do I say it?
She may not have the mental capacity to remember my father. She may not have the mental capacity to understand that he is dead. But there is a muscle memory to love.
Would her heart feel scratchy? Would her heart feel pain?
When I visit, we will look at pictures and videos of Eliza, Katie, Matt and Josh, the island, and our new home. I’ll tell her about my new job. I’ll tell her we see stingrays and sea turtles every time we go to the beach. I’ll tell her I make a good Italian-style meatloaf. I’ll admit, again, that my chicken and rice soup isn’t as good as hers. We’ll talk small talk and WVU football.
I’ll run out of things to talk about. I’ll struggle on whether I tell her about my Dad. It’ll linger in the pit of stomach. It’ll feel scratchy. It will hurt. Do I tell her?
Morning is now slowly coming over the mountain. I feel like shit. I’m exhausted. Eliza’s little knees are still in my back. I’m sad. I’m sad for my Mom. She would want to know. I’m torn. Do I tell her?
I have a month to stew on this.
How do you say it? Is it quick like saying “hi”, or slowly, explaining all that I know.
I have the rest of her life to stew on this.
She would want to know. She may already feel it. Maybe a confused and far away ache.
This is all new. I’m unsure on how you are supposed to live without your father. I always assumed I would have more years to figure that part out. I’ve learned to live with out a mother. This is different. It all changed over night.
Do I tell her?
This feels scratchy. This hurts.