This Body is Bullshit

My dad has been gone for five days.

I’m probably going completely overboard talking about him. I’ve posted pictures and dedications and remembrances and stories. People are probably getting sick of hearing about Jim Russell. I don’t blame you. You also don’t have to read it.

Apparently this is what I need to do right now, so I’m going to keep doing it.

My brain is mush. It’s actually concerning at times. I’m doing stupid things. I lose things. I forget what I’m doing while I’m doing it. I can’t focus. I know this is grief and exhaustion and being overwhelmed and probably a little Xanax thrown into the mix, but mostly I feel like I’m walking around in the fucking Twilight Zone.

And while I’m wandering around in there, I keep remembering things about my dad. Somehow, after everything I’ve already written about him, I realized I forgot to mention something incredibly important. My dad was a huge Chicago Bears fan.

Which, as any Bears fan knows, means he spent a significant portion of his life disappointed. In the winter, you could pretty much count on seeing him in a Bears hat, Bears sweatshirt or sweater several times a week. I don’t know how I left that out when I was writing about him, but apparently there are going to be a lot of things like that.

Mostly, though, I’ve been thinking about my childhood with him. My dad was truly a great dad.

That doesn’t mean everything surrounding my childhood was perfect. My parents were divorced. There were problems between my mom and Ken and my dad and the Kathy everyone knows and loves now. There was adult shit happening that I obviously understand differently looking back at it now. Remarkably, after Grace was born, everyone seemed to figure out how to get along. But when I strip away all of the complications in their relationships and think about my relationship with my dad, what I keep coming back to is how much effort he made to be my dad.

When my parents got divorced, my Aunt June had recently gotten divorced too and moved to Memphis with my cousin Jennifer, so my mom and I ended up moving there to live with them. I was really young. I don’t even remember exactly how old I was, but I remember my dad dropping me off. I remember standing behind that storm door crying and watching him leave, wanting him to come back.

And the thing is, he did. He always came back.

At the time he was living in Carbondale, and he would come to Memphis to visit me. He would pick me up and take me places. No matter where life ended up taking my mom and me, my dad figured out how to remain my dad.

There’s one story he used to tell that always tugged at my friends’ hearts when they heard it.

I must have been little and still in Memphis. Dad was driving either some kind of pickup truck or maybe an El Camino, which probably helps date the story. This was also clearly before anyone gave a shit about car seats because I was standing in the back between the two front seats next to him while he drove. Dad had his arm resting on the center console when he suddenly felt something dripping onto his hand and forearm. It was me. I was crying.

He asked me why I was crying, and apparently I told him I was scared that if something happened to Mom, or if I got lost where we lived, I wouldn’t know how to find him once we crossed the Mississippi River. My dad pulled over and drew me a map showing me how to get to him if I ever needed to. God, that story hits differently today.

Life moved my mom and me around. Memphis. Countryside. Milwaukee. Eventually Indian Head Park. Dad kept coming.

By the time I was growing up in Indian Head Park with my mom and Ken, Dad was living in Bloomington. Every other weekend he would drive up from Bloomington on Friday, pick me up, turn around and drive all the way back down there so I could spend the weekend with him. Then on Sunday, he would drive me all the way home and turn around again. Every other weekend.

As a kid, I never thought about what that actually required. He was my dad. It was his weekend. That was just what we did. As an adult, I understand it very differently.

I had longer stretches with him during the summers too, and I always spent Christmas Eve with Dad and Christmas Day with Mom.

One Christmas Eve I was really sick, probably strep throat because that was my childhood specialty. We lived in one of those condo complexes that frowned upon children and definitely did not allow dogs. Dad showed up on Christmas Eve with Muffin. He walked that dog right into the condo to see me. I can only imagine the old ladies gasping in horror as this wild looking man with the eyebrows and mustache walked an unauthorized dog through the building on Christmas Eve. I’m sure if anyone said anything, he politely wished them a Merry Christmas and told them to mind their own fucking business. Or something close to that.

Bloomington is where so many of my memories of Dad live. He lived in a family home that his Uncle Leo and Aunt Lucy shared, and that’s where I really perfected being the tomboy he was raising me to be. I came home with scrapes all over my legs from falling out of trees. I broke my arm roller-skating. I rode dirt bikes. I shot BB guns. I came home with stories that horrified my mother.

And then there was the snowman. One winter weekend in Bloomington, Dad and I built the most incredible snowman in the front yard. This thing was at least as tall as my dad, and Dad even built a top hat out of snow on it. I remember being so proud of it.

Then sometime in the middle of the night we heard all this commotion outside. Some teenage kids had stopped their car, gotten out and knocked the head off my snowman. They chose the wrong snowman. Dad went charging out of the house after them, grabbing whatever happened to be near the door, which, for reasons I cannot explain, was a sledgehammer. So now we have Jim Russell, in the middle of a snowstorm, chasing a car full of teenagers down the street on foot with a sledgehammer because they decapitated his little girl’s snowman. Fortunately for Dad, they were having trouble getting traction in the snow. Eventually they started pulling away from him. So he threw the sledgehammer. Right through their rear window. I’m sorry. That story is fucking amazing. I realize violence and throwing sledgehammers through automobile windows are generally frowned upon, and I apologize if you take it any other way. I was his little girl. They knocked the head off my snowman. Dad handled it.

Looking back now, I completely understand why my mother occasionally had concerns about what happened during weekends with Dad.

Dad and I loved going to the movies together. He was always good for a cool pair of gym shoes, a hockey jersey, a baseball glove or something else I thought was awesome at the time. He bought me a Bulls Starter jacket, which was a very big deal back then. For reasons I still cannot explain, I was also a St. Louis Rams fan as a kid. I have absolutely no idea where that came from.

Dad and I goofed around constantly. He loved giving me a hard time, and one of my favorite things was fucking around with him right back. Even when he was annoying and embarrassing, and believe me, he was frequently both, I could usually get a chuckle out of him.

Dad could also have a temper. I’ve already mentioned the Home Depot incident, and I’m sure there were other encounters in parking lots, on streets and wherever else somebody made the unfortunate decision to fuck around with Russell.

Disrespecting Kathy was an especially poor life choice. One of my favorites happened at a local restaurant they used to hang out at. Some guy told Kathy to shut up. The next thing he knew, Dad had him up against the wall with his feet no longer touching the floor. I know violence is never the answer. But I would be lying if I said that kind of shit doesn’t make me a little proud of my dad. He adored Kathy. That was his wife, his person, and there were certain lessons in manners Russell preferred to teach hands-on.

Then I had Grace, and suddenly I got to watch my dad become Papa. Watching him with her made me understand my mother on an entirely new level. Grace and Papa absolutely adored each other, and he scared the shit out of me with approximately half of the things he did with her. I now recognize this as some very well-deserved karma.

Dad and Kathy helped me out a lot by spending significant time with her while I was still figuring out my 20s.. I could count on them. I could count on them with Grace. I could count on them with my dogs. Dad, Kathy, Grace and I would pile into that big-ass truck and go cut down our Christmas tree. There are so many ordinary memories like that, and right now those are the ones that keep popping into my head. I also know how lucky I was to have the father I did. It makes me sad that Grace didn’t get to have that same experience with her own father. I wish she had. But she did get Papa. And she got one hell of a Papa.

Maybe that’s why this ache in my chest feels so enormous. My dad was literally larger than life to me, and he leaves this void that I genuinely cannot imagine ever being filled. And now somehow we are all supposed to figure out what happens next. The last five days are already a blur.

Kathy and I went to the funeral home. At some point, whether it was that day or the next, Kathy, Grace, Matt and I just sat outside on the deck with the dogs. I don’t even know that we talked about much. We were kind of sitting there in awe of what had just happened and wondering where the hell life goes from here.

Then Crissy came, and it was so good to have her here. I know Kathy was trying really hard not to bother anybody or make anyone feel like they needed to come take care of her, but Crissy wanted to be here with her mom. I know it meant the world to Kathy to have her daughter there and just have that comfort of having her close. Honestly, Matt, Grace and I felt the same way. Crissy helped Kathy finish cleaning and organizing the house. Crissy, Kathy, Matt and I actually managed to go out for a casual dinner one night. We went down to Grace’s and spent an afternoon with her too.

I also loved that Matt got some time with Crissy. He loves her and Kevin so much and always loves spending time with them, so I know he was happy to have her here too. It just felt good having all of us together for a few days. Nobody really knew what the hell we were supposed to be doing, but at least we were doing it together.

Crissy left yesterday, and I know that had to be hard for both her and Kathy. Thankfully, Kathy’s friend Melissa came and is staying with her for a couple of days. Tonight we’re all going to Susie and Brad’s for dinner. Dogs included.

People have actually been really respectful about not inundating me with phone calls, and I appreciate that more than they probably know. I think the only people I’ve actually talked to on the phone are Ken, Drew, Grace, Natalie, Megan and Susie. That’s about all I have in me right now.

I talked to Drew shortly after Dad was gone. We were both crying, but of course he still managed to make me laugh. If you knew my dad, there’s a pretty good chance you knew one of his signature moves. He would pretend to blow into his thumb like he was inflating his hand, slowly raising his fingers until, surprise, he was giving you the middle finger. Through tears, Drew told me to remember that Dad could probably see the two of us crying and was most likely blowing up his thumb and giving us the finger for it. And then we were both laughing.

Natalie was another person I knew I needed to call. Not because I suddenly felt like talking on the phone, but because I was worried about her worrying about me. Which pretty much sums up our friendship. She had just had surgery, and I already felt terrible that I couldn’t be there for her. Meanwhile, my dad had just died and she was worried about me. So I’m telling her how bad I feel that I’m not there, and she’s basically like, “Thank God you’re not here.” Then we went back and forth worrying about each other. Are you okay? I’m fine. Are you okay? Neither one of us particularly convincing.

Donna stopped by with flowers and my absolute favorite cupcakes in the world. We sat outside together, and I never felt like I needed to host her or entertain her or even really talk. Sometimes we just sat quietly. She told me what I wanted to hear about what was going on with her and didn’t force me to talk about my feelings or ask me to explain how I was doing. She just needed to lay eyes on me and make sure I was okay. And I know that about her. That’s the kind of company I can handle right now. Someone who knows me well enough to understand that showing up doesn’t mean I need to perform for you. Bring me cupcakes. Sit next to me. Tell me about your shit. Let me sit there quietly.

Megan did the same thing in her own way. She dropped off flowers, keepsakes and dinner on our stoop last night. Maggie stopped by for a hug and I tried to force give her some hand me down Halloween decorations. My HR team sent me a plant. Rusty and Heather sent me a plant. A candle from Jennifer,

There have been so many messages and little reminders that people are thinking about all of us. I feel every bit of that love, even when I don’t have it in me to respond. And because apparently this week wasn’t quite stupid enough already, my phone broke. I had to get a new one yesterday. They guaranteed me everything would transfer over without a problem, and most of it did. Except, of course, all of my text messages with my dad. That devastated me. Out of everything that could have disappeared, it had to be that.

And now I have no idea who I replied to before my old phone died and who I didn’t. So many people have been wonderful enough to reach out, and I can’t remember where I left off with any of them.

So if you’re reading this and you texted me and I haven’t answered you, I’m sorry. I love you. I appreciate you. I feel the love and support around me even when I don’t have the capacity to respond to it. I’m so incredibly grateful.

I know people want to see me too. They want to get me out of the house, take me to dinner, have a drink, distract me, make me laugh. I understand why. That’s what people who love you do when they don’t know what else to do. I just have zero interest right now.

I don’t want to be around a bunch of people. I don’t want to sit somewhere and talk about how I’m doing. Honestly, the thought of sitting through a normal dinner conversation sounds exhausting. Maybe I could sit somewhere and have a beer, except I weirdly don’t even feel like drinking. I’m brain-dead. I’m living in the Twilight Zone. And it is getting better. A little. I’m trying to work the best I can remotely even though I don’t necessarily have to but it’s a good distraction.

Today is also Amy’s birthday, and I never want my own sadness or the heaviness I have always felt around September 11 to take anything away from celebrating her. She deserves to have fun and smile and have a great fucking birthday. I also know she understands where I am right now because I remember how broken she was when she lost her dad a few years ago.

And right now, as I’m writing this, I’m sitting outside with the dogs basically staring into space.

My poor husband just got home from work. Since walking through the door, he has already vacuumed, washed the floor, wiped down the sliding glass door and God only knows what the hell he’s doing in there now while I sit out here contributing absolutely nothing to society.

Meanwhile, I’m probably driving him crazy because I’ve lost the mail. I misplace everything. I walk around looking for things I just had in my hand. I can’t remember who I’ve talked to, what I’ve answered or what I was doing thirty seconds ago. But he’s giving me grace. Everyone knows Matt is the saint in this relationship.

It’s September 11. My dad has been gone five days. My brain doesn’t work. My phone ate my dad’s text messages. I’m sitting outside with the dogs while my husband cleans the house, and I keep remembering things.

For now, I’m going to give myself these last couple of days to relax and reflect and let my brain do whatever the hell it is doing. Then I’m heading to Wisconsin to help Ken with his surgery. Maybe taking care of someone else for a little while will give me some kind of reset.

It has only been five days. I think I’m allowed to be a little fucked up.

I’m going to keep talking about my dad. If you’re sick of hearing about Russell, feel free to scroll. I have about 50 years of Dad to remember. Right now I can’t remember where I put the fucking mail. But I remember my dad.