The problem with funerals, apart from the obvious, is all the hugging. People want to hug you, pat your back, rub your arms, stroke your hair, hold your hand, and all that other touchy-feely crap with which I am monumentally uncomfortable. Under the best of circumstances, the touchy-feely crap would make me tense and ill at ease. Under the current circumstances, which are obviously far from the best, it all makes me burst into tears. With every well-meaning pat on the back or embrace, I dissolve into a puddle. Even more than hugging, I hate crying in front of other people. You can imagine how awful and uncomfortable I find crying while being hugged in front of a bunch of people. At my dad’s funeral, after about five minutes of this torture, I barricaded myself in a corner behind several rows of empty chairs. Even those determined to comfort me were thwarted in their quest for a hug. I felt a little bit bad because I knew many of the people seeking to console me were themselves in need of comfort, but I didn’t budge from my corner. I felt the job of providing a shoulder on which to cry would be better left to more capable individuals. Nurturing, I am not. Besides, I can’t imagine people enjoyed having me sob all over them and ruining their clothes with my tears and runny nose.

Despite all the hugging, the funeral was quite nice, if “nice” is a term one can use in reference to a funeral. My dad wasn’t an especially formal guy, so my mother decided his funeral shouldn’t be a formal affair. No black suits or dresses or anything like that. We wore bright colors because that’s what Dad liked. Sadly, my mom vetoed my suggestion of us all wearing polyester pants and hideous plaid shirts in honor of dad. (What can I say? My dad had crappy fashion sense. The 70s hit him hard, and he never quite got over them.) She also vetoed my idea of suggesting people bring kittens in lieu of flowers. I think it would have been awesome. I mean, what better than a box full of kittens to lift a person’s mood, right? But oh well.

The pastor did an okay job, despite being a bit heavy-handed with the Jesus crap. Actually, I’m glad he kept going on and on about Jesus, because it irritated the shit out of me, and as long as I could be irritated, I didn’t have to be sad, so that helped. And then he’d start reciting scriptures or whatever, and he sounded just like Captain Kirk, which would make me laugh, so that was cool. “The Lord…IS…my shepherd.” Seriously. Just like Captain Kirk. Of course, then I’d start thinking about Star Trek, and how much my dad liked it, and how we always used to watch it together, and then I’d start getting teary-eyed again. I’m sure if anyone were paying attention to me, they would have thought I was having some sort of episode. I’d be pissed off one moment, laughing the next, then sobbing two seconds later. In fact, as I think about it, people were looking at me a bit oddly, and a couple of them did offer me Valium. Hmm. Well, whatever. I think I am entitled to an emotional breakdown at my own father’s funeral.

After the service, we invited everyone to one of Dad’s favorite Mexican restaurants for a…what do you even call it? Reception? Wake?...something, at any rate. We drank buckets of margaritas and told hundreds of Dad stories. It was just so bizarre because I’d be in the middle of an anecdote, thinking that Dad should really be telling it because he does a much better job, then I’d wonder where he was, then I’d remember why we were all there in the first place, and I’d get choked up again.

And now I’m home, and things are even more bizarre. At my parents’ house, everything reminded me of Dad. His things were all over the house, and I got used to the constant reminders. Here, I go for hours and hours without even thinking about him, then something will remind me, and I’ll start crying again. I’ll be watching TV, and I’ll look at the coffee table he made for us. Or I’ll be at work and see the alert I added to my calendar to remind me about his birthday in September. Or someone I haven’t seen in a while, who knows he was sick, but hasn’t yet heard that he died, will ask me how’s he doing. I’ll have to tell them what happened, and it’s like an ice pick through my chest to say the words aloud. Saying them feels surreal, like the words are a lie, or like I’m reciting lines from a script. I just can’t get used to saying, “My dad died.” I know it will all get easier with time, but right now it’s just so sharp and fresh and awful.

Friends help, though, and I have a lot of amazing ones. Many of them came up for the funeral, and having them there helped a great deal. Those who couldn’t come up, sent flowers and plants, and a number of them donated to Hattie Larlham in Dad’s name. It’s a wonderful organization to which my parents have been donating for years, and at which we’ve all volunteered at one time or another. And all the notes people have been leaving in my diary have helped, too. You guys are lovely, and I thank you all for your thoughtfulness. At the risk of sounding sappy…I’m an incredibly lucky girl to know such wonderful people, online or otherwise.

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