Catching up (part 2)

(continued)
As I got older and he grew more frail, my hate somewhat diminished. I began to understand just how tragically flawed we all really are. I regretted assuming I knew my father by the persona he wore on the outside. I only new a small percentage of what encompassed my father, though I'm not sure I could have gotten him to open up and show me anything different…at least I could have tried.

When the doctors pulled us aside and told us that he wouldn't get any better, we had to make a decision to keep him alive or to pull the feeding tubes. I guess I was in a state of shock by the whole thing, cause it wasn't until 2am, sitting in the room by myself while my mother and sister were getting something to drink, that I realized that we had given the go ahead for him to die. He wasn't going to get better. He was going to die and I approved it. I don't doubt that the choice was right and I'm sure he would have wanted it that way, but I will never really know. He wasn't able to tell us. I can't even remember the last thing I said to him or what he said to me.

It took less than 24 hours for him to die. I was the last to arrive in the room. Mom said he must have known everyone was there, cause it was but a few minutes after I was there that he stopped breathing. I don't know that I believe that, but I guess it doesn't hurt.

When it came time for the funeral, my mother asked if I wanted to read the eulogy. I knew I didn't want the pastor to read it, someone who didn't even know my father at all. I said yes, why on earth I thought I could do it, I still don't know. In retrospect, probably the worst 10 mins of life.

I was proud of the eulogy that I had written. I think it was a good summary of my father and his life as his friends and family knew him. My eulogy had no religious mentions whatsoever, I chose mythology instead.

For years my father carried a silver dollar in his pocket. He carried it so long that both sides were completely bare of their original ornamentation. A few years before he passed away he misplaced it and never found it again. A friend of mine, who also has since passed, gave me a silver dollar dated 1921, my fathers birthday. I carried it in my pocket for about a year before father died. Before anyone arrived at the funeral home, I placed the silver piece in his shirt pocket. In Greek mythology, to cross the river Styx, Charon, the ferryman must be paid an obouls or in this case silver, in order to cross into Hades. Those who don't have payment must wander the banks with the dead for a hundred years, I wanted to make sure dad had his.

This little bit of information was about as far as I got before I lost it. It started with that discomfort in my throat, the tightening and straining; as if you had just smoked a million cigarettes or screamed at the top of your lungs for days and days. I tried to continue on, but every time I did, something had hold of my throat. Then came the sobbing, uncontrollable sobbing. I managed to catch my breath a few times, to continue, but every ounce of me wanted to quit. I didn't want this anymore.

I looked out at my audience, you know, what you're supposed to do when addressing a crowd. I lost it again. This happened several more times. A good friend of my mine who graciously came, though he didn't have to, dropped his head to his chest because he couldn't stand to see me that way. Fuck, I didn't want to be seen that way. Well, somehow or another I made it through, but before I did, everything I had held inside came rushing out at a rate too fast for me to control.

...Sigh...I promise I will get to the dream.