Simple sentences.

My mind is talking to me in simple sentences.

Today is Easter.

My dad is dead.

Today is Sunday.

It is raining.

My dad is dead.

This is how I chat with my daughter with Down syndrome. In simple sentences. Except I leave the last word blank for her to fill in. That’s a sentence now. A simple sentence. My dad is dead. It’s so simple it’s not. When I fill in the last word I come up with all the things he was. Not is. He isn’t anymore. He was. He will never be was dead. He was a man, was a father, was alive. But now he is dead.

We write her social stories to help her comprehend very simple and very difficult things. She loves her social story about her grandpa being dead. It’s so simple. She giggles and holds her hands excitedly over her chest or mouth when her favorite parts of the story come up.

“Grandpa loved spending time with Anna.” We say with excitement.

“But now grandpa is gone, he died. Anna won’t see grandpa anymore, but grandpa loves Anna.” She loves this part.

She holds her belly and says “belly hurt?” During thé part that says “grandpa was very sick.” Then she says “not anymore.” And shakes her head. Then she asks for chicken nuggets for supper. Anna’s day revolves around making it to supper. She asks as soon as she wakes.

“Chicken nuggets for supper?” Or “cheeseburgers?” Or “spaghetti”

“Yes, Anna we will have supper tonight.” I don’t promise as I’m thinking, if we make it to supper. It’s not a guarantee we do. My dad didn’t make it to supper. He is dead. My dad won’t be making Easter supper. He is dead.

The finality of something so simple is just final. It’s too final. There are no negotiations to make to change it. Death is our final offer. We negotiated and manipulated and tempted life until the final offer was made and it was just so…just, final. He is dead. It is final.

You sign papers and everything. These are not the deal makers. These are the final papers people. The ones that then have the certificate that says you finally lived and now it’s finally over. There are no more deals to be made. You are now officially finally at peace. Because life is just not that peaceful. The negotiating through life is painful, it’s expensive, it’s struggling for words for a today. Because it’s too complicated and I prefer simple sentences. Life is hard. Life is struggling. Life is painful. Life is love. Love is painful. Death is final. Love is forever. He is dead. Dad loves me.

He is gone. Final. Finally. He was very sick. He struggled with life. Just the mechanics of having a body do it for him. His body won. It made the final deal and it was accepted. Finally. It is a relief. He is dead. He was in pain. He is not anymore.

His mind always said “do, live, be.”

His body said. “I wasn’t quite made right to do all this being.”

He did, he lived right through the pain. He forced his body to just do it. He lived and worked deals with it all his life. I wonder in the end if his mind mind was quiet? Was he still fighting and trying to make deals? Or did he just listen. Finally just listen. Did he finally just say enough and listen.

You can keep a mind going, you can keep breathing artificial. You can even run machines that are hearts when yours goes. But when your gut says it’s time. It’s time. That’s why they call it a liver. It’s your live. Everything below the liver is your real life. In the end his gut lost blood flow from a blood clot in his bowels. Ischemic bowel disease. He went septic. His gut died. Then he died. He is dead.

My gut that morning said he was going to. I had a gut feeling. My gut has always talks to me. It said to call him the night before. Not because he was doing so well, it was in case it was the only chance I had. I was right. I started hugging him weeks ago. In case. He joked we aren’t supposed to. We also rarely did. But something in my gut said to. Listen to your gut. Not just your heart and your mind. Some people make decisions with their heart, some with their mind. I make mine with my bowels. It’s all digested to there and the feeling is made.

I was asked yesterday how I don’t gain weight with my bottom less pit appetite. I think my calories off is what my dad always said. I don’t work them away. I think so quick and often it all just flows right through. I barely have time to absorb required nutrients from food. I’ve been deficient of vital minerals and elements. I have been dehydrated most of my life. I get so hungry but can’t get full. But can’t eat large amounts. I graze. I spend all day long with food in my hands and mouth. I keep snacks everywhere. I will get shaky. Weak and irritable. I struggle with my sugar balance. I love sugar. That’s not quite right. I love things sweet. My teeth are apparently to blame. I have a sweet tooth.

My dad was this way. Was. My dad is dead. It’s child like to keep reminding myself. It’s also easier than working through the whys and what ifs that come naturally to me. Is this a healthy coping skill or an I developing an avoidance mechanism to avoid the difficult? Now isn’t the time to change and add new coping skills except my coping skills can’t be accessed because they require places that are deemed dangerous right now. Nature is also coping. I must give her the space she is demanding too. For me, it’s not a place it’s feeling. I can probably get close to it if I really calm the rock tumbling enough to, if I just sat. Quietly. And listened. But. My dad is dead. He was alive. Now, just dead. It’s Sunday. It’s Easter. It doesn’t mean he is. He isn’t. He listened. And died. It’s final.