The following might seem like a strange thing to put on a blog. This is an incredibly public place, and every day it seems I find out another person I know is reading it. Even some people I DON'T know read it, and to them, this might seem particularly odd. Still, I feel compelled to write it, because if this is supposed to document my year in Serbia, it would be painfully inaccurate if I didn't talk about it. I also hope that in some small way, sharing this with however many people will see it will make it an easier load to bear.

My father died last Tuesday. It was his 60th birthday. In fact, my first whole Serbian sentence that I made up myself, not from a book or for homework, was "Danas je moj onacov rođendan! Srećan rođendan, tata" which (I think) means, "Today is my father's birthday. Happy birthday, dad." (I wasn't 100% sure on the possessive). Anyway, as I was writing that sentence (and feeling proud of myself for being able to), my father had a heart attack while taking a nap and died in his sleep. I found out at about 10:00 pm Belgrade time, and was home in DC by Wednesday evening.

It hurts. I don't recognize my life or my family or myself. I have never felt anything like this before, and I am not a big fan. The neighbors bring food, so we eat it. We put it in our mouths, chew, swallow, and agree that it is good. We are sure it is, but we don't know, because we can't taste yet.

It is exactly like playing in the snow too long. There isn't any pain when your hands and feet are red and raw and numb. The pain comes when you go inside, and the numbness starts to leave. I remind myself that, just like hands numb from the cold, this pain is a good thing. The pain means that the blood is starting to flow to that part of you again, that your heart is beating, that feeling is coming back. Knowing that doesn't make it hurt any less, though. I hear that at some point it will hurt less, but I don't know when that is yet.

I feel like I have gotten to know my father more through the open house and funeral and reception than I did when he was alive. I keep thinking about how much he would have enjoyed the reception after the service, or how pleased he would be to know that they talked about him on NPR. Mostly I keep thinking about the things I want to say to him, the things I didn't think to say when I still living my old life, the life of a child, so I will say them now. Dad, if you're still reading this blog, I want you to know that I love you. I want you to know that I am proud of you, and that I miss you, and that I think I am starting to understand how much you loved me, and that you were proud of me, too. I want you to know you were on NPR, and in the Washington Post, and on the home page of the Newseum website. Mostly I want you to know that I love you.

Tears come in waves, and cards and flowers and emails come by the truck load. So many times I have remained silent when someone I know has lost someone, because I never knew what to say. Now I know that the important thing is just to say SOMETHING, because every text message, facebook post, email, card, and phone call mean something... mean a lot, actually. Each one brings a little hope, a little peace.

I will be going back to Serbia. I don't know when yet, but I know I will go back. I love my life there, and my dad would want me to go back. I know that, because he loved me, and he was proud of me.

Doviđenja, tata. Volim te.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/09/21/AR2009092103716.html

http://www.newseum.org/news/news.aspx?item=nn_PAGE090917&style=f

http://www.kansas.com/news/obituaries/story/975616.html