No Talking

Why does our brain talk to us when we yearn for silence?

I just wanted to watch tv for a bit before I went to bed.

My brain decided to play an ugly 'what if' scenario instead.

What will happen when dad dies? 

I wouldn't know it had happened. Not right away. I'm sure someone would call me...but who? When? How long after?

How would he die? Accident? His heart? He's not sick like mom was-it could be anything.

Would they know which number is mine in his phone?

Who would I call first? How would I even begin to plan a funeral or wake or whatever it is that you're supposed to plan? He did everything for mom's service. I was too numb.

Who would I call to ask for advice? Who would rumble kind words to me when I needed to hear them most?

What would I do without him?

Would I be ok again? It took a long time after mom.

My brain made me look at the phone, again and again, waiting for it to glow with a call. I started checking it again and again, sure that it had just buzzed. The call about mom came early in the morning but you never know.

I know as I get older, he does too and for every moment I cherish with him, I anxiously let time go. We all end but the mere thought of dad not being there chills me.

We talk often and sometimes he sounds more tired than I'd like. If he coughs more than the cigarettes usually trigger, I imagine the worst.

Why? Why does my brain do this shit? I am realistic. I know anything could happen, at any time and that's about all I know. The only thing inevitable is change they say.

It's the severity of the 'what if' that bothers me so. I imagine everyone thinks about death at times. It's everyone's last chapter.

So vivid for me, this terrible thought. And all I wanted was to watch a little tv. But it stays. 

I know I could call him now, if I needed to. I could make sure he was snoring in his chair in front of a sports channel, but I'm almost sure he is. If he's not sleeping, he's hanging out with friends. He's drinking and laughing and having a good time being young at 73.

He's not worried that the phone will ring at any moment, devestating news on the other end. He's living his life and dammit, I must try harder to do that too.

He's taught me so many things. To live. To enjoy life and make the most of it. To do what makes you happy.

Don't worry so much, he'd say.

It feels like my brain is against me. It won't let me have peace. It shrieks at me with everything that might go wrong in a tidal wave of anxiety and it usually starts with thoughts of his death. It mixes in with memories of losing others I love. And it stays.