Journal Entries
Packet two
Nicole Ponsler
October 6, 2008
Mom called today to say, “your dad died”. It was sudden but not all-together unexpected. He had Alzheimer’s and had been in an elder care facility for a few months. He just stopped breathing. I had a friend find me a flight home while I packed. Packing for a funeral is, well, depressing. I just kind of threw everything in a bag, said good-bye to the dogs and Nate and started the three hour journey to San Francisco. I hate SFO…try to never fly out of there but circumstances being what they are…I am numb.
I got into Indiana late at night. My cousin Larry picked me up from the airport. We stopped by my uncle Bill’s house to pick up the spare car for me to drive around for the week. His house had the most peculiar smell…like burning rubbish. I later learned he had set a steak on fire in the microwave (!?!?), which subsequently set the microwave ablaze. Hmmm. This from the uncle who says the more education I get, the less common sense I have.
We visited the funeral home and finalized plans. I don’t get the whole open casket thing, but this isn’t about me. Cops keep stopping by. My dad was a Captain for 35 years. Cops, cops, cops...
Nate flew in today, thank god. He pointed out that he could tell I’d been at home for a few days because I was so quick to serve him food. So true.
We met with the Reverend and extended family for eulogy planning. As it turns out, my parent’s church was destroyed last week when a 103’ tree smashed into the nave exactly two hours after the congregation departed. Needless to say, the reverend was a little overwhelmed! We eulogized, we visited the church, we ate.
We had the visitation today. I think maybe 100 people came. It felt like one long line of, “You don’t remember me, do you?”. It was really nice seeing so many (kind of) familiar faces. My art teacher from high school came. A bunch of old friends showed which made the event feel more celebratory than sad. I’m not a fan of open-casket funerals. My feet hurt and my throat is dry from talking so damn much, saying over and over, “I live in CA, I’m in graduate school, I’m an artist”.
Mom’s hanging in there after 55-years of marriage.
September 24
Day of the funeral.
Honor guard.
Lots of guns, a flag, blue skies.
Back to what’s left of the church for food.
More cops.
Schlepping flowers home.
Mom’s freaking out.
Mom’s crying because her sister just left for Florida. I wish she would just move there so they can be closer. I decide to let her grieve privately because it seems like something that should inevitably happen.
Nate leaves.
Mom and I visit Nate’s sister in IN. We play with the kids. It was good for mom to watch them playing…good for all of us. Nate’s two-year old nephew, George looks like he’s in a fight club. The entire left side of his face is black and blue from where his older sister decided to plant her foot while he was attempting to go down the slide. Siblings…
Went to Bloomington (home of my alma mater) to get away from the ‘burg and to get my studies back on track! I ended up reading Henry Krystal’s essay on trauma and aging which was beyond relevant in terms of explaining some of my mother’s idiosyncrasies! Thank-you Mr. Krystal…I was about to lose my mind.
She is the queen of operative thinking, judgment, alexithymia, psychic closing off, cognitive dissonance, and pseudophobia. I know I am an asshole for saying these things the week my dad died, but her crazy is in overdrive and I am the one left dealing with it.
I’m sure you can deduce by now that I have moved nearly 2000 miles away for a reason. I was not close to my dad for reasons I have been enumerating to my counselor for years. He was terribly abusive, mean, sadistic, cruel…and did I mention he was also a cop?! A cop with a penchant for guns! So, I just spent a week surrounded by cops who never helped us who were also packing heat. Not my idea of a good time. Hence, the interest in art and trauma.
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