N.K. Murray

You died today. While I was sitting in a window at the end of a long hallway in the hospital, waiting for what was now the inevitable, a ladybug landed on me. We were in the midst of a sweltering April, something that hadn’t happened in many years. It was Maundy Thursday, I recalled, and Good Friday was tomorrow. I knew it wouldn’t be a Good Friday for me though, because you were in a room a few doors down, dying from the cancer that had eaten you alive for the last three and a half years.

But back to the ladybug. I loved ladybugs, I thought inexorably, as though it was the only sane thought in a mind that had lost its mooring at the realization of your impending death. I allowed the bright red, shiny little spotted insect to walk along my fingertips, and I smiled as it rested on the web of my hand, between my thumb and forefinger as though waiting to see which way it would travel next.

And then the little fucker bit me.

Did you know ladybugs bite? I didn’t. At first, I thought I was sleep-deprived and crazy. But when the welt swelled on my hand, and a quarter-sized flaming red mark appeared, I knew I had been betrayed by the single happy thought that had crossed my mind in the past couple days.

You know what happens next. You died. Three days before Christians celebrate Jesus Christ rising from the grave. It was April 12, 2001. I was 22. The next few days and weeks passed in a literal blur. I didn’t sleep much. I kept hearing you breathe, and then stop. That sound haunts me to this day. I graduated from college, the first one in the family to do so. We saved you a front row seat at graduation and I silently held in my tears at the idea that you weren’t there, in body, watching me. I applied to grad school, writing about how I used to sit on your lap and watch boxing, and how you used to let me fill in your work football pools because I was better at it than you were. Or so you let me believe. I went on vacation, and spent two weeks in Florida going through the motions of having a good time.

I moved into my first apartment, and that following summer, the ladybugs infested the front door. I couldn’t keep them out of my apartment no matter what I did. I’d find them everywhere – and my cats had a field day tracking them down. They reminded me of the worst day of my life. I felt the sting of the bite from the ladybug that day, and the wound from your passing on my heart. Both left their mark in different ways.

I’ve never been the same since.

I know if you were here to realize that, it would upset, maybe even anger you. I was so happy-go-lucky before, even though I was insulated in my own little world. The bravado I believed I had prior to your death became the mask I’ve hidden behind since. I’m angry instead of joyful. I’m anxious instead of carefree. I’m sad instead of smiling. My resting bitchface is one to behold and I’ve mastered the art of maintaining it, even though inside I want to scream more often than not.

I’ve done quite a bit in your absence. I’ve grown into my anger and my sadness and have used them to fuel me to do something more. But, the fact remains that you’re gone and as much as I have these dreams with Maggie and Bane lying on the floor next to you and mom and Uncle Pepe at a pinochle table waiting for me to fill the fourth chair, I’m still here and plan to be for some time.

I’m 40 now, and each summer I hear the frogs trill and the cicadas buzz and see the ladybugs settle into their places in my garden. I don’t bother them, and since your death, they don’t come near me. I don’t forget the day you left me, nor will I forget the sting of the ladybug that I had loved before then. I don’t really feel much like celebrating Easter anymore, because while Christ rose from the grave, you’re still in yours. I visit you frequently, and I have to admit, springtime is my favorite because the blackbirds return to Elmlawn and the cemetery is filled with their cries. They remind me of when you used to take me driving there, and I’d stop to make sure I didn’t hit the errant bird who was haughty or brave enough to stare down your truck as it stood in the middle of the road.

It’s been eighteen years since you left. You’ve been gone nearly as long as you were here for me. I’ve had these conversations in my head, and with friends who’ve lost a parent where we discuss whether or not we’d want no parent, or if we’d want a parent for x number of years only to lose them. I said I’d rather have nothing, because the loss is something that has fundamentally altered who I am in such a way, that I can’t imagine how I would be otherwise. It brings about quite the philosophical discussion, for sure, but I know in my heart and in my head that I would rather not have had you than to have lost you the way I did. Some people are equipped to deal with loss better than others, and I’m one of the others who can’t seem to get past what might have been had you lived. What I might have been had you lived. We are tied tightly together in this world, and though my good deeds on earth can be tied to my desire to prevent someone else from losing their dad like I lost mine, I would rather float along oblivious, than to have the pain and longing that comes with losing a father.

I’m fine. I really am.

I have a good life that I appreciate more each day. I have some of the most amazing friends and family who support me in my endeavors. I am fortunate enough to be able to help people along the way, and that makes me feel better when literally nothing else does. I’m not the not nearly-adult 22 year old that I was when you left, and most days, I’m okay with that. More often than not, I’m happy, whether because I truly am or because I convince myself I have no reason to be otherwise. It’s easier sometimes to wear the mask than it is to explain how I’m still sad nearly two decades later.

But, I digress.

You died today. It was eighteen years ago, but today, I remember it like it was happening all over again. I remember the antiseptic smell of the hospital, the sound of my sister running down the hall hoping she hadn’t missed you leaving, and the sobs that came from all of us when your breath finally left you. I remember that fucking ladybug who taught me that the most beautiful things in the world can still hurt you, if you let them.

But most of all, I remember you.

Love, Me.