12.21.01:
Nearly six months before his first grandchild was born my father died. Not tragic death but death none the less. Final to the max.
His last few years were rough. Recovering from surgery, everyone telling him how he had to change in order to live. A new diet, no smokes or PBR, lots of stress without really knowing the stresser(?) No sleep, depression. After awhile I couldn't tell if he actually cared about living because death seemed so much easier. I thought the news of new life would help. When I told him the news over the phone his response was "well that is great, let me get your mom." It was said with the same carefree tone one would use when answering the question, "room for cream in your coffee sir?"
So nine years post stroke, his granddaughter is moving from baby to little girl and growing faster than her mother or I can imagine. I asked her this morning how time has gone so fast. Her answer was pure gold. "It seems to move the same speed all the time to me dad"
He has a grandson too. So much of him I see in my son. The nose, grin and mischievousness.
I am a fatalist, that is, I don't sweat the reality. That is, you have life, you must have death. I did not cry or feel overly remorseful at my dad's funeral. I ended up feeling bad for a lot of different people. Some were sad, hurt and confused. Others were pissed. As a joke to lighten the mood, I locked the front door to the church as people were starting to arrive for the funeral service. Great fun until the lock jammed and no one could get in to mourn. It got solved after ten minutes but folks were pissed none the less. Hey, it is me what can I say. My brother and wife laughed.
Every time I am home, 3000 miles from where I now call home I visit him. Regardless of the time of year my daughter puts fresh flowers on the grave even though she never knew him. She tells me that she does it for me because she knows it makes me feel better. Every time, I am that much more proud of her. Together, we talk about the past, the future, what could have been. Growth.
During my visits home I always make a second trip to my fathers grave. I meet my brother and we have our "maffia moment". He smokes Winstons and we each have a drink or two. A conversation in a cemetery, muted voices, no one else around, car running in the background. I do this not because I need to see my dads grave. I do it because my brother needs to mourn. He was there at the end. Read the living will and made the decision to pull the plug.
In the years since he has not coped well. Lots of booze and anger. We talk, a conversation we've had at least nine times. Unresolved guilt and anger. He despises our mother for putting it all on him. He cries a lot during our maffia talks. I listen, hug him and realize that family bonds are amazing. I wish I could shoulder some of his burden. I seem to be able to shake stuff off better. I have a ton of mates and an amazing family. He is alone, sad and depressed. I suggest talking to someone, giving up the bottle for awhile and offer to do what I can to make it happen. Like our old man, he just shakes it off, says he'll be fine. I leave and 3000 miles and a month later I still worry about him.
12.21.10; so close to 2011, another year in the books.
Thanks for reading.
Nearly six months before his first grandchild was born my father died. Not tragic death but death none the less. Final to the max.
His last few years were rough. Recovering from surgery, everyone telling him how he had to change in order to live. A new diet, no smokes or PBR, lots of stress without really knowing the stresser(?) No sleep, depression. After awhile I couldn't tell if he actually cared about living because death seemed so much easier. I thought the news of new life would help. When I told him the news over the phone his response was "well that is great, let me get your mom." It was said with the same carefree tone one would use when answering the question, "room for cream in your coffee sir?"
So nine years post stroke, his granddaughter is moving from baby to little girl and growing faster than her mother or I can imagine. I asked her this morning how time has gone so fast. Her answer was pure gold. "It seems to move the same speed all the time to me dad"
He has a grandson too. So much of him I see in my son. The nose, grin and mischievousness.
I am a fatalist, that is, I don't sweat the reality. That is, you have life, you must have death. I did not cry or feel overly remorseful at my dad's funeral. I ended up feeling bad for a lot of different people. Some were sad, hurt and confused. Others were pissed. As a joke to lighten the mood, I locked the front door to the church as people were starting to arrive for the funeral service. Great fun until the lock jammed and no one could get in to mourn. It got solved after ten minutes but folks were pissed none the less. Hey, it is me what can I say. My brother and wife laughed.
Every time I am home, 3000 miles from where I now call home I visit him. Regardless of the time of year my daughter puts fresh flowers on the grave even though she never knew him. She tells me that she does it for me because she knows it makes me feel better. Every time, I am that much more proud of her. Together, we talk about the past, the future, what could have been. Growth.
During my visits home I always make a second trip to my fathers grave. I meet my brother and we have our "maffia moment". He smokes Winstons and we each have a drink or two. A conversation in a cemetery, muted voices, no one else around, car running in the background. I do this not because I need to see my dads grave. I do it because my brother needs to mourn. He was there at the end. Read the living will and made the decision to pull the plug.
In the years since he has not coped well. Lots of booze and anger. We talk, a conversation we've had at least nine times. Unresolved guilt and anger. He despises our mother for putting it all on him. He cries a lot during our maffia talks. I listen, hug him and realize that family bonds are amazing. I wish I could shoulder some of his burden. I seem to be able to shake stuff off better. I have a ton of mates and an amazing family. He is alone, sad and depressed. I suggest talking to someone, giving up the bottle for awhile and offer to do what I can to make it happen. Like our old man, he just shakes it off, says he'll be fine. I leave and 3000 miles and a month later I still worry about him.
12.21.10; so close to 2011, another year in the books.
Thanks for reading.