If you were to play a word association game with me and say "Super Bowl", I would answer, "my Dad died." I have nothing against the Super Bowl, I love Football and I am looking forward to a very exciting game this year. I think Peyton Manning is incredible and playing at a whole other level, but I love underdogs and its hard not to cheer for New Orleans. I will be happy no matter who wins.
My problem is that my Dad collapsed while watching the Super Bowl on January 29, 1995. They got him back with the Defibrillator but he went into Cardiac arrest about 1:30 AM Monday morning in the ICU and that time they couldn't get him back.
He was alert and awake in the ER Sunday night and still bitching about how the Forty Niners did not deserve to win for getting rid of Joe Montana. He had been brought back from the dead, and was not the least bit grateful about it.
My regret is that we argued in the ER. My last words to my Dad were words of anger. He wanted me to take his hearing aid home for safe keeping, and I had refused, because I was sure he would need it. I ended up cursing him and his non stop bitching, and I put it in my pocket just to shut him up. It was still there in my pants pocket the next morning when I walked into my Mom's hospital room several floors up to tell her he had died. She had been there almost a month after having a stroke on New Years eve, and was supposed to come home that very day.
This past year I finished several drafts of a novel. The main character is an alcoholic Army vet who has a dog for a best friend. The Vet's relationship with his father is one of resigned indifference. He feels obligated to care for the man despite their constant bickering.
Just like I inadvertently carried my dad's hearing aid around in my pocket after he died, I still unintentionally carry a unmeasurable amount of guilt and grief with me each and every day concerning how badly I treated him in life. This time of year, as the anniversary of his death draws close, I can't help but once again reexamine all that transpired between us.
I keep thinking that somehow someway, I will find that process that lets me put the guilt down, but I am still searching. I thought writing the novel would help, and it has. The burden is not as heavy after 15 years, but it is still there.
No one can do this for me, I have to do it on my own. There is one bright shining star in this, and that is my wife. The life I have had with her since then has made it easier to move on, even if it was only a little bit at a time. Thank you Honey.
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4 comments:
It all comes with age.
I was such I piss that I didn't go to my dad's funeral. He was abusive.
As you become older you start to gain wisdom. Face it as an kid I was an asshole. I can't believe the person I was then.
Fact is that I only was familiar with my 65 year old father for the last 16 years of his life. I can now only realize I missed out on all the elements that led my dad to be what he was from the prior 49 years he had lived before my birth.
The salvation in all of this is that one recognizes the prior missteps and as a result gains wisdom from them.
There are those who walk this Earth that never reflect and for them there is no growth. For those there is no progress.
For them it is a far graver in error to the soul to remain in ignorance then those who have the apologetic misgivings of youth.
I'd rather be borne the guilt of knowing these missteps and by doing so, gain wisdom from them rather then remain mired in self ego. Of which there is no growth.
i believe many of us carry similar thoughts we label as regrets or guilt. but regardless of that label, he is still very much in your memory. that's the important thing, that's a tribute to him
I used to frequent this Jewish bagel shop in Bryn Mawr once upon a time.
They had this sign that basically says :
When I am little my dad knows everything.
The older I get, the less dad seems to know.
By 25 or so, dad is an idiot
By 40, dad is getting smarter
By 55, dad is a genius again
By 70, I wish dad was around so I could run this or that by him just one more time
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Life is definitely some kind of long strange trip.
As a recovered Catholic, I recognize the waste that the emotion of guilt plays unless it is projected onto self-reflection---as in this piece. Wisdom is the most precious treasure.
Dealing with my own self-reflection and my role as a grown-up daughter; it's all so complicated sometimes!
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