Grieving
I'm sitting with a lot of sadness today, as I'm aware--painfully aware--of the impending deaths of arguably two of the most important men in my life: my Dad and Al Fletcher. Their deaths seem to be intertwining in my consciousness in ways their lives never did.
Al is 63. Dad is 76. Al served. As my father pointed out to me one day recently, he didn't have to serve in Korea in part because I was born in August 1949, thereby making him ineligible for the draft. (I wonder if I would have taken that out, if it had been offered to me. I didn't enlist in 1969 to fulfill any dreams. It was a practical decision based on my nearly certain belief that I would be drafted coupled with a pregnant wife and no job. Ah, the twists and turns of fortune.)
Both Al and Dad were alcoholics; Al also had a drug problem to overcome. Dad also battled a very challenging upbringing as the child of his alcoholic mother and an absent father. Only after I was born did Dad learn that his father hadn't abandoned him and his brother; rather his mother had taken them and run away. How did that change my father's view of life and himself?
He refused to confront his mother with this knowledge he gained from his own father when Dad finally tracked him down. I wonder why? He won't tell me.
I'm not really going anywhere with this entry. I'm just sitting here in sadness at these deaths. I tried to call Al's hospital room today, but they've apparently turned the telephone off. It probably doesn't matter. His friend told me in a voice mail message that Al is getting a lot of morphine for the pain. I'm guessing it's enough to keep him pretty oblivious. Al's friend also told me that when people go to this particular floor of this hospital, they go there to die.
Well Dad has gone to his own place to die. He's in the same nursing facility where Mom died. In fact, he's in the same room and the same bed as she was in. He knows. He's happy with it, and he just wants it to be over.
Al, on the other hand, doesn't want to die. He wants to keep doing Bridge and Vets Journey Home work. He wants to keep helping and counseling veterans, and maybe playing a little golf on the side.
It doesn't matter what we want, does it. When it's our time to die, it doesn't matter what we want.
Me? I want each man to have what he wants. If I could, I would assist my father in ending his life. And if I could, I would help Al live 20 more years (or whatever). But I can do neither. Each man's destiny is his own, and mine is my own.
So, anybody got any idea where I am in the grieving process? Denial? Anger? Bargaining? Acceptance? All of the above? Somewhere else?
I'm sitting here in my sadness waiting for two of the most important men in my life to die.
Al is 63. Dad is 76. Al served. As my father pointed out to me one day recently, he didn't have to serve in Korea in part because I was born in August 1949, thereby making him ineligible for the draft. (I wonder if I would have taken that out, if it had been offered to me. I didn't enlist in 1969 to fulfill any dreams. It was a practical decision based on my nearly certain belief that I would be drafted coupled with a pregnant wife and no job. Ah, the twists and turns of fortune.)
Both Al and Dad were alcoholics; Al also had a drug problem to overcome. Dad also battled a very challenging upbringing as the child of his alcoholic mother and an absent father. Only after I was born did Dad learn that his father hadn't abandoned him and his brother; rather his mother had taken them and run away. How did that change my father's view of life and himself?
He refused to confront his mother with this knowledge he gained from his own father when Dad finally tracked him down. I wonder why? He won't tell me.
I'm not really going anywhere with this entry. I'm just sitting here in sadness at these deaths. I tried to call Al's hospital room today, but they've apparently turned the telephone off. It probably doesn't matter. His friend told me in a voice mail message that Al is getting a lot of morphine for the pain. I'm guessing it's enough to keep him pretty oblivious. Al's friend also told me that when people go to this particular floor of this hospital, they go there to die.
Well Dad has gone to his own place to die. He's in the same nursing facility where Mom died. In fact, he's in the same room and the same bed as she was in. He knows. He's happy with it, and he just wants it to be over.
Al, on the other hand, doesn't want to die. He wants to keep doing Bridge and Vets Journey Home work. He wants to keep helping and counseling veterans, and maybe playing a little golf on the side.
It doesn't matter what we want, does it. When it's our time to die, it doesn't matter what we want.
Me? I want each man to have what he wants. If I could, I would assist my father in ending his life. And if I could, I would help Al live 20 more years (or whatever). But I can do neither. Each man's destiny is his own, and mine is my own.
So, anybody got any idea where I am in the grieving process? Denial? Anger? Bargaining? Acceptance? All of the above? Somewhere else?
I'm sitting here in my sadness waiting for two of the most important men in my life to die.
posted by Tom | 3:47 PM
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