I know. Sounds unfair. I don't hate the people. I don't hate "the Church." I don't hate the treacherously beautiful desert and mountains. I don't even hate the depressive pall that hangs heavy over the town I'm staying in.
My father has lived here for a few years now. He moved to Utah to ski. And ski he does - well over 100 days a year. 68 years old. He's a machine. Fittest of the fit. He had invited me out to ski with him each of the past few years. But I never had time. I never had the money. I just . . . never.
Well, now that my father has cancer, I'm finally here. And I'm hating every minute of it. I hate the fatigue, the weakness, the shortness of breath, the pain. I hate the very modern, beautiful, award-winning medical facility carefully watched over by mountains. The mountains are especially gorgeous between 8 and 8:15 pm when the setting sun gives the western face of the mountains a warm, pinkish hug goodnight. Sometimes, for a moment during that time, I forget how much I hate Utah. But just for a moment. Then I remember the tubes, the monitors, the (wonderful) nurses, the fourteen pills he takes each morning. In that moment, I forget the new gauntness of his face, his distended belly, his dry, pale hands and arms, and his, now, old-man shoulders.
But it's just a moment. I brought plenty of knitting to Utah. I knew it would help. That it would distract me. Help me swallow the tears that sit constantly, just in the bottom of my eyes. Keeping my hands busy, focusing on something else. Creating something. I just knew this would keep me sane. Hmph. It's all bullshit.
I hate Utah.