My sister’s husband died.

I was never close to him. There’s a big enough age gap between us that I don’t have any common interests or life experiences with either of them. They had their own family when I was a kid. I’m closer in age to my nephews and nieces than I am my sister. I lived with my mother, alone, while they lived their lives very far away. I saw them twice between 4 and 22. Once for a trip after my mom’s first granddaughter was born (the 3rd of the grandchildren) and once when my grandmother died.

My sister’s husband drove us kids to the funeral with an open beer in the cup holder beside him.

He died, very unexpectedly, on Christmas Eve. I am now old enough and responsible enough that when it came to calling and notifying family, my sister called me. I then told my mom and my other sibling. Updated my dad, too, in case he hadn’t heard. He had raised her, after all. Thirteen years, which is lots more than my two week visit with him once a year. He knew, of course. She called him first.

But I am the one in charge of our mother. I have adapted to dealing with her by myself. I know she forgets. I know she doesn’t remember the past the same way as everyone else. I know she gets offended when she talks about some insignificant detail (I saw a squirrel. Looks like rain.) and people don’t respond with ample enthusiasm. I know this, just as I knew she would want to be down with my oldest sister.

Unfortunately, no one else can put up with Grandma, and so, every visit she has had with them has ended with her angry, offended, and leaving without saying goodbye.

So I organized the trip, in order to run interference between my greiving sister and our mother. We arrived on the other side of the country yesterday, in order to attend the funeral Saturday.

Now, if it were just my mom and sister, that would be plenty, but there’s more. There’s always more. They willingly live in an area of the country where hate and anger are traits that are lauded. Politics is branded like sports teams, and you’re either with them or against them.

I have had anxiety every day for the past 15 days.

I can pass. They can look at me and make their assumptions, and there is no reason I have ever needed to explain or justify myself to anyone. Especially for people who don’t know me as anything other than blood. But I don’t want to listen to it. I don’t want to be here.

I have tried to look at this in some other light. Two weeks away from my normal routine. Maybe I can focus on my writing at night, when I’ve got some time to myself.

But so far, every moment I have spent on this trip with any kind of downtime is just fueled with anxiety. I lay in bed for 2 hours last night, heart pounding like I was running upstairs. I want to write. I want to clear my head, but I have to stay in control of everything, or we’re going to have people locking themselves in rooms and crying, just like last time.

And all the while, all I can think is how terrible of a person I am that I’ve had no emotional reaction to a death in the family. I’m not numb. I’m not in shock. I’m just empty, going through the motions of supporting people who don’t know me, and who would probably hate me if they did.

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