stream of conscienceness: memories

always, with the episodes. i don't know why they were called episodes anyway. one day you have a healthy, happy dad and the next he is confined to his chair, vomiting up the gatorade you gave him 20 minutes earlier. yellow puke bucket. iv stand we used as roller skates later. blue chair, and highlander on tv. he was a different person, during these episodes. same daddy underneath. so physically pathetic, but mentally strong, ashamed to be weaker than his little girl.

two weeks before, i played a gold medal at ISSMA for violin. wore that dress mom made me. a scratchy collar. everyone was so proud of how well i did. we went out with friends in bloomington after. laughing, chatting, eating. then all of a sudden the call. spending the night at sara rather's. two, three nights in a row.

pacing outside the hospital room. smells like old, sick, drugs and cleaners. i didn't want to be there. i was bored. bored.. and scared. too scared to go see him. too scared to even talk on the phone. as a consequence, neither did katy. my baby sister did not say goodbye and it is my fault.

friday. art class. mrs. adams. the voice clicked over the intercom - holding something back. i knew it was for me. i knew why i was going down to the office. running down the hallways. it was a dream.

the rest is mush. everyone streaming in and out. lasagnas. family. holding. tears. get her out of the house. she doesn't want to be cooped up with everyone here. kaleo.

i spent this friday night in a room full of strange teenagers. adolescents who had never heard of me. kids who would later turn out to be some of my closest friends. amber was the only familiar and safe place. i sat on the couch closest to the arcade, with inpursuit pictures above me. bridget was just two or three girls down. how was i to know she had lost someone too? i don't even know what mike said, but it triggered a steady stream of tears. no stares. no awkward pauses or glances. just hugs. acceptance. a crowd of middle schoolers, loving on a broken heart.

it changed my life.

not that life was magically better afterwards. i got two brown stuffed animals. a moose from JR and a giant bear from my whole class. that thing was eventually encrusted with snot and tears. i don't even think i sent a thank you note. it was the right size for holding and hugging and it got me through the next year. chocolate was so soft - the moose. i collapsed in JRs arms, and sobbed. the front row of FBC franklin stained wet with my ungrateful tears. bear on one side and JR on the other - two pillars holding me up. i couldn't do it myself.

days turned into months. the cards stopped coming, people stopped asking. it didn't go away. IT DIDN"T GO AWAY. nights when i would walk into mom's arms.. crying like a child for no reason other than emptiness. mom couldn't lock the door at night for a long time - i had to do it. it was the last thing he did before going to bed - how could she take on that job? how did she bear it? how did she watch the love of her life get taken from her? to not just die but deteriorate... my biggest fear.

ten years. what have you missed, dad? Y2K. freshman year. driver's license. my first car, second car, and accident. my first boyfriend - you would have approved. my second boyfriend - you would have killed him. proms, ductape and non. graduation. art school. just the every days. the camping trips. the sunday suppers. you weren't there to give me tips on how to handle myself in the city, or which beer tastes best. i can barely remember your voice.

all i have are baby pictures.. and a picture in fourth grade. family portrait at grandma's. mom and katy are smiling, but you and i have the same expression - a stern gaze. my arms are wrapped around your neck, i'm standing; you're sitting. we know it's not a happy time. you were sick. you were skinny and hurting. the camera. it didn't fool me, or you. the resemblance is uncanny.

daddy, did you miss out on all these things? were you there all along? can i believe in angels and hallmark greeting cards?

i am so glad that you chose mom. that you had katy. they are the reason i am here. we are stronger now, as a family. we never forget you, but if you had lived, would we be the same? would we appreciate each other as much? or would i be a vapid, self centered rich girl with no idea what heartbreak and loss truly is?

being incomplete helped to complete me.

Darrell Lee Kessler: died Feburary 5th, 1999.