Stage Two is Anger
So says Ashley, and she’s right.
When my grandmother was dying I wasn’t angry. I was calm. I screwed around with my cousins, I reread all the HP books in preparation for Deathly Hallows (it was that summer), I went swimming. It was hard–of course it was hard–but I was not angry.
Then she died and I was. I was suddenly incredibly furious. I screamed and yelled and tore around the house in Maine behaving abysmally. I was just furious.
The same thing is happening now. While I do not believe that this will kill my father–at least not anytime soon–it is fucking scary. We are moving forward, and he has been accepted into a highly acclaimed program at Johns Hopkins, which is terrific.
And I am all of sudden furious. Zoe barked at me yesterday and I screamed at her to shut the fuck up. One of the kids asked me to hold his sweatshirt (admittedly in a whiny voice) and I snapped that I AM NOT IN THE MOOD TO LISTEN TO YOU WHINE. Someone in math was complaining about getting an 80something on a test and I nearly turned around to yell in her face that MY FATHER HAS PANCREATIC CANCER AND NO ONE GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOUR 80 SOMETHING.
I didn’t. But still.
Stage 2 is anger. I understand anger, I understand why we are all angry. I know why I am angry at the universe, at a God I may or may not believe in, at the architects of the Vietnam War (fucking Agent Orange) but that does not make it easier. Anger is a hard emotion to sustain. I need to figure out, in the end, how to be angry without taking it out on everyone else.