Conclusions on a country road

Dad’s Funeral, Part 2
Friday, mid-afternoon

After driving nine hours home to Kentucky from Michigan by myself on Thursday, I was exhausted.

Let's be honest: I've been exhausted since I was in Kentucky just a month ago. And really, I feel like I haven't slept well in years.

On this day, Friday, I had woken up several times in the morning but welcomed the chance to go back to sleep when I realized that today was visitation day at the funeral home for the father I barely knew.

I continued this wake-up-then-be-overcome-by-dread-then-nearly-panic-and-finally-fall-back-asleep pattern until Mom came into my room to tell me it was noon.

I rolled over and picked up my phone. I had missed a call from Candace and text messages from Tifany and Tara.

Funny, I'm 34 years old. I've made many friends since moving away to college and then in my 11 years in Michigan.

Yet three friends from childhood were the ones checking in on me on this most grueling and awkward of days.

During lunch, between Mom’s “crunch, chew, chews,” I looked at Friday's local newspaper. That contributed significantly to the aforementioned irritability and sadness.

After such a great phone conversation with my dad’s son on Wednesday night, I had held a smidge of hope that Dad's obit was reprinted on this day after the one that ran Thursday failed to mention me as a survivor.

No such luck.

And then I made the mistake of reading my horoscope.

"It's one of those days when the people you try to please the most are likely to be the least appreciative of your gestures. You can't be all things to all people, so don't even try."

Well, son of a bitch.

All the way home, I had wondered what exactly my purpose was for driving nearly 600 miles for this funeral, beyond the unlikely chance for closure.

"If I don’t know what I'm looking for, how will I know when I've found it?" I posted to my Facebook while driving down I-75.

I came to a few conclusions over the next few hours of that drive.

One: The peace, if any, found this weekend may not be my own.

Crap.

Come on, God. Could I really be driving 600 miles for someone else's peace? Please don't let that be the case. After 34 years, don't I deserve the peace?

Two: I don't want anyone to go to the funeral home with me. I've had plenty of offers from family and friends, but I don't want to go there with a group of supporters. I don't want to turn this into a production about me. This is not about me.

This visitation and funeral are for Dad’s "real" family. The ones who have known him and loved him all their lives, and who are hurting and mourning. The last thing they need is the long-lost daughter showing up and stealing the spotlight.

Wait, is there a spotlight at a funeral? Well, if so, I don't want it on me.

Yet, I would take a little acknowledgement. I didn't get it all my life. I didn’t get it in Dad’s obit. And I can pretty much expect I won't get it in the funeral service on Saturday, either.

Sigh. What the hell am I doing here?

And that horoscope? Jesus. What if it's about my dad's wife? What if I'm somehow subconsciously hoping to make her feel better in all this, and yet she turns out to be the one who is "least appreciative of my gestures?"

Plus, who at the funeral home will know I'm his daughter? Who won’t? How much more awkward could this be?

My stomach hurts.

But I have to go get ready. Visitation starts in two hours.

To be continued …

Dad’s Funeral

Note: I did not weigh in today. Ever since finding out about my dad’s death last Tuesday night, weight loss and any efforts toward such have been the furthest things from my mind.


Yes, I will get back to both my weight loss journey and blogging about it. But for now, I have to get the whole “going home for the funeral of the father I barely knew” story out of my head and into written form.


So, starting today, here is the story of that journey.


Part 1, 1 p.m. Friday

I'm sitting on Mom's couch in Livermore, Ky., and I am wondering how many potato chips can possibly be in her tiny Lay's bag across the room.

"Crunch, chew, chew. Crunch, chew, chew.

“CRUNCH, CHEW, CHEW!"

Wow, I’m irritable. And sad. But really, really irritable.

Today's Friday, I recall. Oh, thank God.

I can take my antidepressant.

I started on Pristiq last year when I felt I had nowhere else to turn. I had just had a baby, lost my job, my marriage was suffering, and I had just decided that spending all that money taking classes toward a teaching degree that had the potential to be worthless in hard-knock Michigan was not the best plan.

I was lost.

My marriage counselor had suggested I might benefit from an antidepressant, considering the "circumstances."

"Marriage counselor." I use the term loosely. My husband and I had gone to her only a few times and stopped after she fell asleep during our last session.

Yes, seriously.

Anyway, I went to my OB/GYN and explained the “circumstances,” including the counselor’s suggestion, and he prescribed the antidepressant.

Since losing weight, getting a job, etc., I have been in the process of weaning off the Pristiq for the past month and a half or so.

I went from a pill each day to every other day, to every three days, to now, two times a week. I took one on Monday, and now it's Friday. Pill day. Praise the lord and pass the bottle.

I'll do this for another couple of weeks.

My doctor had diagnosed me with "situational depression," so I guess if I can steer clear of any more "situations," I'll be off the happy pills.

At this very moment, I'm skeptical.

And today, I have a situation.

To be continued …

Dad’s Funeral

Note: I did not weigh in today. Ever since finding out about my dad’s death last Tuesday night, weight loss and any efforts toward such have been the furthest things from my mind.


Yes, I will get back to both my weight loss journey and blogging about it. But for now, I have to get the whole “going home for the funeral of the father I barely knew” story out of my head and into written form.


So, starting today, here is the story of that journey.


Part 1, 1 p.m. Friday

I'm sitting on Mom's couch in Livermore, Ky., and I am wondering how many potato chips can possibly be in her tiny Lay's bag across the room.

"Crunch, chew, chew. Crunch, chew, chew.

“CRUNCH, CHEW, CHEW!"

Wow, I’m irritable. And sad. But really, really irritable.

Today's Friday, I recall. Oh, thank God.

I can take my antidepressant.

I started on Pristiq last year when I felt I had nowhere else to turn. I had just had a baby, lost my job, my marriage was suffering, and I had just decided that spending all that money taking classes toward a teaching degree that had the potential to be worthless in hard-knock Michigan was not the best plan.

I was lost.

My marriage counselor had suggested I might benefit from an antidepressant, considering the "circumstances."

"Marriage counselor." I use the term loosely. My husband and I had gone to her only a few times and stopped after she fell asleep during our last session.

Yes, seriously.

Anyway, I went to my OB/GYN and explained the “circumstances,” including the counselor’s suggestion, and he prescribed the antidepressant.

Since losing weight, getting a job, etc., I have been in the process of weaning off the Pristiq for the past month and a half or so.

I went from a pill each day to every other day, to every three days, to now, two times a week. I took one on Monday, and now it's Friday. Pill day. Praise the lord and pass the bottle.

I'll do this for another couple of weeks.

My doctor had diagnosed me with "situational depression," so I guess if I can steer clear of any more "situations," I'll be off the happy pills.

At this very moment, I'm skeptical.

And today, I have a situation.

To be continued …

Let It Be

I just wanted to jump on here real quick before I head out to Kentucky for my father’s funeral.

I’ve been an emotional wreck all week. That’s why I’m not blogging right now.

Well, except for right now. You get the point.

For days, I had wrangled and fought and prayed and lamented over whether I should go to his funeral, mainly because I don’t want to hurt anyone in his family, even though I do need to say goodbye.

This is an odd situation for everyone.

That was never as clear as when his son called me last night.

We talked for quite a while. We laughed, we got choked up.

We want to meet.

And he said one thing at the very end of our talk that removed all doubt about whether I should go:

“I’ve thought long and hard about this, Misty. And I want you to do what you need to do. And if you come down here and one person – anybody – gives you a hard time about being here, you tell them to come talk to me.”

My stuff is packed, and I’m wearing my Beatles “Let It Be” T-shirt.

Ironic or symbolic?

Only time will tell.

Let It Be

I just wanted to jump on here real quick before I head out to Kentucky for my father’s funeral.

I’ve been an emotional wreck all week. That’s why I’m not blogging right now.

Well, except for right now. You get the point.

For days, I had wrangled and fought and prayed and lamented over whether I should go to his funeral, mainly because I don’t want to hurt anyone in his family, even though I do need to say goodbye.

This is an odd situation for everyone.

That was never as clear as when his son called me last night.

We talked for quite a while. We laughed, we got choked up.

We want to meet.

And he said one thing at the very end of our talk that removed all doubt about whether I should go:

“I’ve thought long and hard about this, Misty. And I want you to do what you need to do. And if you come down here and one person – anybody – gives you a hard time about being here, you tell them to come talk to me.”

My stuff is packed, and I’m wearing my Beatles “Let It Be” T-shirt.

Ironic or symbolic?

Only time will tell.

I’m shrinking, but I’m crazy

Hello, Monday. You cruel vixen.

And hello to another weigh-in day.

Somehow, I managed to lose 4 pounds this week!

That brings my total to 43 pounds lost in 22 weeks.

It’s still quite a bit behind my goal of 2.3 pounds a week, which would put me at 50.6 if I were on target.

I’m trying not to stress about that.

A very smart friend asked me recently why I don’t just take the deadline (Dec. 31) off of this weight loss thing.

He said he thinks it would relieve a lot of the anxiety I’ve had about the weight loss and this blog if I just said I’m going to lose 100 pounds but not kill myself to get it done by a certain date.

I have mixed feelings about that.

On one hand, I don’t get much of anything accomplished when I don’t have a deadline. I worked nine years in a newsroom … need I say more?

Plus, having that deadline gives me – and you – an idea of when this blog will end. For some reason, that gives me comfort, and I’m not sure how many of you would still read this if it just kind of went on forever.

However, on the other hand, it did give me a small sense of relief with even him giving me “permission” to remove the deadline if needed.

But then it created a whole other issue for me, which is why do I need others’ permission to make these kinds of choices in my life? Why do I feel better getting permission about MY LIFE from someone else?

See? I’m half nuts. I’ve made no secret about that all along.

Oy. Have a good week.

I’m shrinking, but I’m crazy

Hello, Monday. You cruel vixen.

And hello to another weigh-in day.

Somehow, I managed to lose 4 pounds this week!

That brings my total to 43 pounds lost in 22 weeks.

It’s still quite a bit behind my goal of 2.3 pounds a week, which would put me at 50.6 if I were on target.

I’m trying not to stress about that.

A very smart friend asked me recently why I don’t just take the deadline (Dec. 31) off of this weight loss thing.

He said he thinks it would relieve a lot of the anxiety I’ve had about the weight loss and this blog if I just said I’m going to lose 100 pounds but not kill myself to get it done by a certain date.

I have mixed feelings about that.

On one hand, I don’t get much of anything accomplished when I don’t have a deadline. I worked nine years in a newsroom … need I say more?

Plus, having that deadline gives me – and you – an idea of when this blog will end. For some reason, that gives me comfort, and I’m not sure how many of you would still read this if it just kind of went on forever.

However, on the other hand, it did give me a small sense of relief with even him giving me “permission” to remove the deadline if needed.

But then it created a whole other issue for me, which is why do I need others’ permission to make these kinds of choices in my life? Why do I feel better getting permission about MY LIFE from someone else?

See? I’m half nuts. I’ve made no secret about that all along.

Oy. Have a good week.