The death of my father

So cheesey, but my daddy really was one of my best friends. We spoke several times a week and emailed daily. I was a daddy's girl to the highest degree.

On the morning before 2010 Thanksgiving my cell phone rang at just after 5 am. I saw it was an Arizona number not programmed into my address book. My heart sank. My intution had been to leave my cell on for this reason exactly over the past few months.

I answer the ominous call and all my mother said was, "He's gone".

My world stopped. She explained a few details stating it was sudden and painless, most likely a heart attack, and we hung up. I dropped to the floor and wailed a scene that would put La Bamba's "RITCHIEEEEEEEEEEE" scene to shame. I will never laugh at that scene again.

My husband booked me a flight and I was on my way there before I knew what was happening. As I sobbed a terrible scene in the airport alone, an onlooker felt the need to come pray for me. I told her why I was crying and this is what she prayed:

"Dear Lord, please grant us a miracle here today and raise this woman's father from the dead like you did in my church last month. We know you have the power, almighty one, please grant us this miracle today."

REALLY BITCH!? I have no problem with people praying for me or blessing me with voodoo even, but praying my JUST deceased father raise from the dead? WTF?

I sobbed harder and escaped her insanity. It wasn't worth telling her off and I knew she meant well, even though she just salted my wounds.

I landed in the airport and found my mom and grandma. We all embraced and cried. It was surreal to not see my daddy sitting on the bench by bagage claim where he always did. He came every single time I flew out there and waited for me on the same bench.

My mom and I survived the next few days in our own ways. I made all the arrangements for having my dad flown to California for the services while my mom dazed out. I slept only by heavy medication. Thanksgiving dinner was at Denny's after going through my dad's clothes but before donating thousands of hypodermic needles (my dad was a diabetic) to a dude who took care of small animals and some unemployed lady with a brain tumor (supposedly...even if she was a heroine addict she wasn't going to share any needles any time soon so that was a good thing).

I flew home a few days later, broken and carrying my daddy's camera and watch as my carry-on luggage. I had a huge journey left in front of me then, and I still do today.