I'd written it probably 800 times. The name she gave me and my designation, daughter. On every form, on every paper. Verbally to every nurse and doctor, aide and chaplain.
But that last night something was different
One of the handful of things from that whole day that I remember with absolute clarity......sitting there only half listening to the hospice nurse telling me what was in front of me, what I was signing away, and how everything froze for a moment at that line for relationship. I remember that it hurt, remember thinking this would be the last time. I wrote the word daughter and it felt like a severing, an ending, the last.
It still does
Even though it wasn't
Since then, I've signed countless mortuary papers, and insurance papers, and bank account closure papers. Every one of them with the requirement of who and what I am. And every one has felt false. I talk to bill collectors skirting the line between polite condolences and annoyance at wanting their money (yeah? me too. so sorry, there is none), and they all need to know who I am.
So do I
I know they question because I hesitate each time. I can't not. It doesn't feel right. There are no grandparents, no parents, there is no one before me anymore. There is no one to call me daughter but fucking bureaucracy, and they don't count, they never will.
I don't know what else I can say. I know what people expect. Even though it feels wrong.
In this instance, I don't know who I am. I don't know my place in this world.
Can you still be a daughter when there is no one left to claim you?
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