Not So Cool

This week was way harder than I expected.But, at times like this, I always say: "God its good to be an Irish Catholic chick"I have consulted every possible rule book. And have come to this conclusion: There are NO rules to govern the event that your ex-husband - the father of your one joint and only child - dies. Prematurely, at the age of 47, no less.I wish there was a rule book. Perhaps I will write one.So my son's father died.. He had cancer. For three months. That sucks.The Boy phoned me. "He's gone," he said."Oh, Boy, I am so sorry," I said. Or something like that. We knew it was coming, but when it comes, well, that's a different thing.That boy loved that man..That afternoon, The Boy played basketball. He's a star at that sport. So he went to the funeral home in the morning, picked out the appropriate things, and then he played ball.. I couldn't do that. Play a sport the day my dad died. But he did, he wanted to, and he was, of course, the second highest scorer in the game. For his Dad.We went, of course.I was very nervous about the wake.I mean, what does one DO in this situation?So I walked in.. And they had put up this lovely bulletin board of photographs. Of him, as a child, as a teen, and as a Dad.It killed me, that bulletin board. There he was, in our first apartment, holding our little baby up in the air. So happy! There he was, on that ugly couch that someone had given us, sleeping with our little baby boy. So content.There he was, on our wedding day, no less, smiling a monster smile into the camera. It killed me.I went through the line-up. The Boy was stylin. He had bought a $700 suit to send his Good Daddy off.I was scared to see the family. Would they hate me? After all, I had divorced him. . .They didn't hate me.His sister, who was my best friend (we were so young) came out, special, to have a hug, and a cry with me. His brothers and sisters, well, we cried. . .The next day, was the funeral.I didn't bring enough kleenex.. I thought I had enough. My husband made sure I packed my purse. But tuns out, I needed more.As a certified Irish Roman Catholic, and my ex-husband being the same, I will say this: it was beautiful.The priest actually talked about him, and normally at Catholic funerals they don't even mention the name of the dead. Just ask any Catholic you know....The saddest thing, yet the nicest thing:: the priest chose as the Gospel John 14.2:There are many rooms in my Father's house. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going away to prepare a place for you?When I heard him say that, it killed me. Because I could see him, up there, renovating those rooms. Because he was a carpenter, a meticulous carpenter. A master carpenter.And then the priest gave a sermon. And in that sermon, he weaved, somehow, that Gospel, about many rooms in My Father's House, And The Man, and The Boy.And the priest got in everthing that is true about him: A fabulous father (especially that), a fine, upstanding man, a master craftsman.It killed me. It did.Afterwards, being Good Irish Catholics, we went to the house.For a send-off party.His sister had brought home photographs.. Of us. As kids (we were kids). So happy! Not a care in the world!It killed me.There were a bunch of pictures of him and me. But there are two, in particular, that I love. I forgot they existed, but Good God tnow that I see them, that is the way I will remember him. Remember us.Rest in Peace.You were a good man.