A few days ago, thanks to the wonderful Vanessa O’Loughlin, my personal essay “Overshadowed” appeared at Writing.ie. Little did I know at the time of writing the essay (about my mother’s death in April) that I would return to Ireland again last week, this time for my dad.
Dad is on day 9 of life support following what we believed to be a fairly routine operation for an abdominal aortic aneurysm. The operation was in fact highly risky because of the location of the aneurysm, but Dad choose not to tell my 5 siblings and me. As doctors feared, he suffered massive internal bleeding and we’re left clinging to hope.
I’m furious with this blog, with writing. Why am I here now anyway? Why does some force insist on wringing out of me what I don’t want to say. I have nothing left to say. To write. I’m spent, and then some. Yet I’m here. It always comes back to the page for me, to the unsayable getting out, despite me.
Two nights ago, in the ICU waiting room, my younger brother said, “we didn’t talk to Dad, we exchanged stories with Dad.” My brother is so very right. Dad was a storyteller. Like, an endless storyteller. Like me.
My God, the obvious we don’t see.
I hate that I’m talking, writing, about Dad in the past tense.
I always try to be positive, to have hope. But right now hope is like the dark and light in “Overshadowed” and I just can’t grab hold of it.
I hate that writing this post makes me feel a little better. How so very self-indulgent.
I suppose this is how I scream.