Three Days. Three mother fucking days is all you get for bereavement time. It doesn’t matter who died, a parent, a spouse, or (heaven forbid) a child; all you get is three days. In three days you are supposed to grasp the fact that an immediate family member has passed away, organize their funeral/wake/memorial service/celebration of life, and get your ass back to work. Three mother fucking days. What cold, heartless twat fuck came up with that number?
I lost my father two weeks ago. He had been “sick” but I honestly didn’t think it was going to kill him. Actually, it wasn’t even his “illness” that killed him, it was complications after surgery. I called him on his birthday to sing a poor, yet loving, rendition of “Happy Birthday” as he chuckled in the hospital bed. We then talked about his second surgery scheduled for the next day, and I told him I would talk to him afterwards. Instead of talking to my father afterwards, I found myself driving three hours to the hospital to stand by my mother as we waited for the doctors to tell us good news. There was no good news. He had stopped breathing that morning, and two days later he was gone.
The next day was a Friday. I took it off, using personal time, because I wanted to be with my family. That Monday and Tuesday I was back at work, trying to pretend the most important man in my life hadn’t just left me. Why was I back so soon? Because I felt my three bereavement days were better spent at the end of the week when the funeral was. Those three days were a whirlwind. So many details, making sure my mother was ok, people, people, and more people. You don’t have time to grieve during that time. The only thing you have time for is spinning. And that’s exactly what I did, spin.
The spinning quickly turned into anger. So, for the past week all I have been is angry…at everything. My head wants to explode, my chest feels as if it may actually crush from anxiety, my body is exhausted, I’m messing up at work, I can’t sleep, and all I want to do is yell and blame people. However, I have to keep going because my three bereavement days are over and done with. I am now expected to “get over it” and “carry on” with my everyday life. Enough sulking, Brandi. Pull your head out of your ass and grieve on your own time.
I am a strong person.
Some would say I am an extremely strong person. Yes, I cry at tv commercials and YouTube videos, but I am rock solid when it comes to my family. I am a mother, that is my job. I show the strength, courage, and fortitude needed to raise little humans. But my father dying…that totally rocked my world. I have no idea what to do, and I’m having trouble momming. I go through the daily motions because I’m supposed to, but with no honest effort. I’ve lost that desire. I thought getting back to our daily routine would help, but it hasn’t. Instead the anger and anxiety inside of me grows with each passing day. All because I only get three mother fucking days.
I’m hoping the holidays will whip the grief out of me. I plan to sit around, crying into my mashed potatoes as my kids wonder why mommy is falling apart. I mean, I have to get it out of my system somehow, so I might as well use my paid holidays to do so. *throws up double middle fingers at the twat fuck who decided three days was enough*