Basket of Grief

Patty lumbered into the office hauling a huge, yellow plastic bag. She was a little late, but how the hell could she have had time to go shopping beforehand, I wondered.

"This is for you," she gestured toward the package.

For me? What on Earth for? I walked over to the knee-high bag. It read "Harry and David". Ahhh, the fruit people. Fruit?

It was a giant basket, beautifully wrapped in cellophane -- the really crinkly kind that I've always loved to hear unfurl itself in a wastebasket as if it had a life of its own. A white satin bow topped the production, which contained bags of mixed nuts, dried fruit, and yes, four very large, perfect pears.

But why? What are we celebrating? And, then, it hit me, like a slug to my stomach.

My dad's dead. This basket held their condolences. I'd won the Grand Prize for Grief, a beautiful, all expense-paid fruit basket.

I'm a terrible person for thinking that; I know. They mean well; they really do. But I didn't know what I was supposed to do. What's the protocol here? I didn't think that I should wear the white ribbon as a sash, but the absurdity of the situation made me feel like it.

People at the nursing home look at me differently now; they know my loss. They keep asking me how I'm doing. I function like a normal person in front of everyone. I continue to see Pam every day at the nursing home, and ignore the fact that there's a woman in the bed formerly occupied by my dad.

"I want to know what happened," Pam said.
"To what?"
"To that man who used to be in the room with me. I think I slept with him at night."

Just how many times does she have to grieve for the first time? If I tell her that Dad died, it's as though she never heard it before, because she doesn't remember. It's not fair to her. I change the subject, and she gets annoyed. She'll forget why she's annoyed, but not that she is. Still, it's better than the initial grief repeated and repeated. We sit close together and try to get through the moment. We'll do it again tomorrow.

So, anyway, I have a fruit basket. And a lot of sympathy cards are rolling in. I went to Hallmark and asked if there was such a thing as a death announcement card, as there would be lots of his friends across the country who would not know he died, and would never see the obituary.

They looked at me like I was crazy. There is no such thing, they said. So, I bought some note cards, and figure I'll respond to people as they write letters to Dad and Pam. What a lousy way to find out you've lost a friend.

On the up side, I guess I really am alright. I show up for work and do my job; I can still laugh and plan future vacations with Robert. Lots of times, when I am finally home and alone, I fall apart, really hard. But I suppose that's to be expected. I miss my dad terribly, but I can still function the next morning and go on, knowing he had his time and mine is still in progress.

And, I ate the pears.