In my previous post I had entered the topic "Father Loss" and barely addressed it in the subsequent verbiage, so here we go with a legit emphasis on what it means to lose one's father as a son. I started reading a book lent to me by a friend the other day entitled, Father Loss, by Neil Chethik. It is a treatise on the unique way that men process loss, masculine grieving, with a unique inquiry into the manner by which sons, for better and worse, respond to the shock of their Dad's death. The first part of the book is neatly structured into age ranges depicting real-life stories of boys, and grown men, enduring the often traumatic impact suffered by such a seminal loss. It begins in early childhood and concludes with "the young old years" well north of 50. I fall into the range of "middle adulthood" as did my friend when he lost his father suddenly at just 63 years of age.
My father remains here on the physical plane with us, although he's a shell of the sturdy, loyal and reliable family man I once knew for better than 40 years of this life. I went to visit him at acute rehab to watch the game. I brought him homemade popcorn that Mom had popped, along with an ice cold Belgian ale, among his favorite brand of beer. He was just two sips into the joyful flavor when the nurse came over to confiscate the bottle, citing possible contraindications with his medication. We didn't put up any resistance, although Dad asked where his beer went just a few minutes after she'd walked off like a tattle tattle on the playground.
My father and I have never been very close. We've come along way from the often indifference of adolescence and young adulthood, however, we have't meaningful conversation perhaps since my divorce 5 years ago. He helped me complete that painful process applying his legal skills to expedite the matter. We never discussed anything beyond the legalities, and when the settlement arrived in the mail, he reviewed it and gave it his professional approval. It was never brought up again. I processed that difficult life event mostly on my own, and I suspect it hurt my father at least as much as it did me, maybe even a little more. Though he developed a mastery for concealing his own emotions, other than a periodic flare up when Democrats proposed some socialist agenda, you'd never know what the old man was feeling deep to the core.
I've forgiven my father for giving up on life. He hasn't recovered from the stroke, and an ensuing several week stay in the hospital, nor has he dealt with the death of his Grandson, Charlie. And if that wasn't enough, his brush with death just a few months later, left our model middle class American family reeling. Dad has been in decline for several years, ever since about his retirement from a successful career in criminal law, where he finished in the NYS maximum security prison system. His closing years inside those perilous walls among some who have committed the most odious of crimes against humanity, sapped his soul. I noticed him becoming increasingly cynical about life, quick to criticize not only politicians, but members of his own family. Dad became bitter, and turned more heavily to alcohol and sweets as a coping strategy. Mom had warned it was only a matter of time until something bad happened, and so it did.
While I'm moving into an acceptance stage with the loss I've suffered, it is still a wound that's healing. Additionally, I'm witnessing my mother's grieving, as she is witnessing mine. There's often a "charge" in the air, like a continuous argument that hasn't achieved reconciliation. I had become angry with Dad when his faculties waned to the point where my mother and I could no longer transport him around the house. I just wanted the father with a powerful frame to thrust up and out of the chair, rather than slide helplessly forward in such a weakened state. And though the critic was ever ready to deliver a cutting, and often humorous, one-liner, it was an indication his intelligence remained sharp. I remember many Sundays watching him solving NY Times crossword puzzles before kickoff. And now he's lethargic, despondent and partially disabled. This is my father today. I forgive my self. And I love you Dad.
Peace of I,
InspiraySean