Worried friends and concerned co-workers ask me how we’re doing all the time. It’s an impossible question to answer, so I’ve come up with a standard response:

“Mom is back at work and that really helps. It keeps her busy, gets her mind off things. Ani is finishing up his undergrad degree at Georgia Tech. Aerospace Engineering, so he’s got his mind occupied. He’s also been coming home a lot and that’s really nice. And me? Oh, I’m fine. FINE. Totally fine.”

And it’s true. Mostly. I mean, I’m functional — I go to work and take care of my son every day, and I write in my blog, and I’m even setting foot in the kitchen at least once a week.

See? I’m fine…

Except for that split second right after I open my eyes in the morning. When I come out of the blur that is dreamland and have to consciously remind myself that he’s really gone. That the past three months have not just been a pesky nightmare.

Or when I casually hear someone say his or her age and it’s a number greater than 53. And I feel a pang of jealousy like, “How come this person, who isn’t even that nice or interesting, gets to live longer than my father?”

Or when I watch the Olympics and the skiers hurl themselves down mountains and come out unscathed. It’s not that I want them to get hurt – but it doesn’t seem fair. They fly hundreds of feet in the air and live, while my dad fell off a twelve foot ladder and died. HE FUCKING DIED. He didn’t twist his ankle or bruise his shin, he hit his head and he fucking died.

Or when I’m at the grocery store picking out limes. “The shiny ones have the most juice,” he used to say.

Or when I see a Starbucks.

Or when my mom is having a bad day. When she tries her hardest to trudge through the pain, but the pain keeps setting her back. And no matter what I say or do, it doesn’t get better. And I feel like my family will never be happy again. And I feel like I’ve lost both my parents.

Or when I wear his pajama bottoms, the really old ones with the burgundy stripes. The only item of his I kept.

Or when I make rice; eat steak; see an ambulance; listen to Luki’s laugh; need a home repair; take a shower; open the garage door; mash garlic; or hear someone whistle.

Whenever one of those things happens, I still get the urge to scream and kick and break things. To cry out, “THIS IS BULLSHIT! THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN THIS WAY!”

But the thing about death — the thing I always knew but never understood until now — is that there isn’t a damn thing I can do to fix it. I can scream and curse and stay in bed all day; I can avoid Starbucks and banish all ladders from my presence; I can harbor ill will toward skiers and the elderly…and my dad will still be gone.

So, instead, I breathe, and I look at the big picture, put things in perspective, remember God’s plan, hold on to my child, laugh with my husband, focus on the positive, think about all the opportunities my father’s life and death afforded me.

And when someone asks, I tell them I’m fine. FINE. Totally fine.