Dad, Continued

...cont Breath... You once said to me,"I'm a man of extremes," and I understood immediately what you meant. When you drank, you drank hard. When you worked you expected perfection, in yourself not others, because no one is perfect. When you loved, you loved completely. There was never any doubt that you loved your family. You expressed it often, especially as you grew older. When you finally gave up alcohol, you turned to religion just as fervently, going to church every Sunday. To the church, your preacher father preached at, on occasion when you were younger. The church where he and your mother now rest. Mom again was a reluctant partner in your extreme behavior. I remember nightly prayer sessions when you would gather the family and you would get on your knees and pray, sometimes for an hour non-stop. I also remember the feelings of mild anger for this unwanted intrusion on my nightly TV schedule. Your religious fervor becoming so extreme you gave away most of your earnings to the church and TV evangelists which caused hardship for you and mom. Suffering for God I guess. Later conversations, which for me were always difficult with you, became almost impossible. Even the most mundane talks were steered toward repentance. A simple, "How are you, Dad?" ended with, "I'm good, thanks to God, but if I wasn't, that would be OK too because I'm right with my maker, are you?" I remember one evening when I had simply grown weary of your games, dad, and you made a comment to me about being saved and how everyone who sincerely repents will go to heaven. I asked you, "If a man who murdered another man in cold blood repented and accepted God does that make him a better person than me? Will he go to heaven before I do?" Your response was an immediate, "Yes." I told you that's all I wanted to know and turned around and walked away. I understand that your intentions were always good, but you disappointed me so severely that night. You never understood me. Breath... When I was married you didn't come to the wedding, but then I understand you weren't at my birth either, which is the reason I was the one named after you. I understood you hated to fly and you have a phobia of heights. I have to admit a small part of me was relieved when you started making excuses why you couldn't go. To this day I'm not sure why I felt that way. I do regret you never having met my wife's parents, just as I regret my daughters having never met them (by the way, my daughters' memories of you are very different than mine). Your extreme behavior I guess springs from emotional issues. The diagnosis of bi-polar disorder in your later life did not surprise me. In fact its one of the few things we have in common, although mine has not been diagnosed and is no where near as extreme as yours. Just the occasional unexplained bouts of depression. They come and go and I deal with them. When you were diagnosed with lung cancer that was different. You never smoked. That was Mom. It was probably caused by your work, steel worker, welder, breathing in oxidized dust all day, nearly 40 years of it. They found spots on your lungs years before but nothing came of it. This time it was stage four. I have regrets. Breath... I can't... I say I can't but in fact I don't want to remember the date that you died. It's been a few years now. You were admitted to the hospital about a week before you left us. Although I have a few very vivid memories of this time, most of them are actually quite vague. I do remember bringing my wife and kids down to see you when you were admitted. We had a difficult but nice conversation. You told me you did not expect to leave the hospital but you were ready for the inevitable. You seemed calm but I thought I saw a hint of fear in your eyes. Growing up you never let us see your fear. Toward the end of our conversation I was walking out of the door and you sat up and looked at me as if to say something. I waited for several moments but you couldn't get enough breath to speak. I consoled you and told you,"You can tell me later, Dad" and you nodded. Then I told you I love you and I'd be back in a few days. Luckily over the following few days all of your kids and of course mom and most of your grand kids came to see you, although, the one you really wanted there couldn't come because she had already passed. You told me you were going to be so happy to see her again soon. I came back but never saw you awake again. I so regret not knowing what those last words were that you wanted to tell me. They kept you sedated that last day because of the pain and discomfort and I have memories of watching you lying in that hospital bed straining to breath. The hollow sound as your chest rose and dropped in a vain effort to keep you alive. The shallow air of no use to your dying body. I remember thinking Breath... Breath... Breath... while knowing all along that it was too late. I felt guilt and confusion when I realized how much I wanted it to be over but how much I wanted to have a few more days with you, but it was time. Your heart beat for several minutes after your lungs stopped working and the nurse checked you. He said it's over and I remember thinking how strange it was feeling the cold settling into your skin. Then I remember my last thoughts of you as my brother and sisters and my brothers wife stood there hugging each other. Don't breath, Dad, let go, your almost home.