In Which the Good Typist Regrets Saying Mean Things About Tugboats, Sunrise Confusion, It Comes in Waves

On the way to my father’s funeral, I didn’t feel very good. I was hot and stomach-achy and extremely anxious. Mr. Typist kept explaining that we left in plenty of time and that it was not going to be a catastrophe if we happen to get there a few minutes late, but that did little to calm my nerves. Then a bridge went up, and I lost it. I was furious. I didn’t  understand how a bridge could just go up, willy-nilly, in the middle of weekday, when people needed to get to work, and now there were masses of people whose productivity was ground to a halt because of a stupid tugboat. Mr. Typist tried to explain to me something about maritime law, blah, blah, blah, and boats getting priority over vehicles, and that the tugboat was towing goods that were needed for “industry,” but I didn’t care. I was outraged. I stared at the stupid, giant, immovable concrete slab of road looming above me and cried. It felt morally wrong and deeply unjust. I had a funeral to go to, and no control over when they were going to bring that bridge down. What if they never lowered the bridge and we were stuck there for hours? What right did this stupid, useless tugboat have to stand in the way of me and my father’s funeral? What kind of effed-up city gives boats priority over cars? Eventually the bridge went down and we were on our way, but that was a bad seven minutes for me.

Twenty minutes later I started crying again, because I felt guilty about saying bad things about tugboats. I actually love tugboats. I used to work for a tug-and-barge company, and I think tugboats are amazing feats of maritime engineering. I didn’t mean to besmirch their name, even in the privacy of my own car. So, this is my official apology to Seattle tugboats everywhere. I think you are awesome and that you move industry along in a important way, and I have no ill will. It was just very bad timing.

The funeral: I got through it without losing it completely. It was weighty and radiant. My dad’s ashes are buried next to a brook in the best spot in the cemetery. (Nice score, Dad.) Thank you to everyone who came, and thank you to Father Hoang, the community at St. Gabriel Catholic Church in Port Orchard, the Friends of Bill W., and everyone who was a part of my dad’s mission to lead a rich and meaningful life of service.

So now: I’m tired a lot and I cry at inopportune times and I don’t understand why the sun keeps coming up. I don’t understand why people are just walking around acting like everything’s normal. I guess no one told them.

And yet: I continue on, too. I went to the range yesterday, and I’m finally starting to put it all together. Shooting is becoming a path for me—to discipline, focus, strength, and courage. I had a consultation with a fitness trainer this morning and signed up for a series of sessions so I can beat this knee issue and strengthen my upper body for shooting. I’m going back to work tomorrow, as long as the sun rises again.

If anyone has known the devastation of losing someone close, it’s a Navy Seal combat veteran:

Maybe one day I'll be able to write that letter, Dad.

--Kristen McHenry