Before I get into it, I'd like to point out how, for some reason, emasculating it is to order a specialty latte with "no whip." I then feel obligated to point out that it's not because I'm on a diet or something, it's just because when I put the lid on it starts to ooze out the sides and the little pinhole thing at the top and, sometimes, when you peel the drinky/sippy part back the whipped cream shoots out right on me and gets all over my clothes and I'm just not down with that. I don't dig it. So, most of the time I just let them put the whipped cream on top and then I put the lid on and deal with the repercussions. I've tried licking/eating the whipped cream off first but it feels dangerously erotic in ways it shouldn't and I don't feel like that's something I should be doing in public. Not to mention the mess it creates by getting all over my face and then I just look really super childish. It's a fucking mess. Anyway, on to bigger things.
My therapist/counselor/whatever and I have been discussing whether or not I ever really achieved closure from my father's death. First off, I'd like to say she is, really and truly, only a counselor. But I have issues with that title. If I call her a therapist it makes it feel more official in my mind. More necessary. If I tell people I'm seeing a counselor, it sounds stupid, it sounds wimpy, it sounds like I don't have any direction in life. I guess I don't know if I do or not, but there's that. So, anyway, she's a counselor but I call her my therapist.
We're discussing closure. I couldn't say whether or not I've ever actually achieved it. I found ways to cope with it, but never actually confronted it head on. The ways I found to cope with it were, obviously, less than healthy and had caused some pretty disastrous results in my life after a while. As the saying goes, "You can run, but you can't hide." I can tell you, that shit's true, dude. Amy (my counselor) suggested I write a letter to my dad as a form of attempting to reach closure. Y'know, tell him all the shit about how his death has affected me, the things he's missed out on, and whatever the hell else I felt like was worthy of inclusion.
The thing is, I can't write this letter. It's like the thing of telling all the people the shit I wish I could. Only a little different. I can't write this letter because, well, he's dead. I don't write letters to dead people. What's the point? Who would read it? Why am I writing it all down anyway? I'm going to write it and I'm not going to read it. I'm going to write it and I'm going to immediately delete it, or throw it in the trash after tearing it up, or whatever. It's about as pointless as masturbation. Well, I guess that's a bad analogy, masturbation is pointless but it has its purpose. Once you're done with it you are truly done, but sometimes it's just something that needs to be done. Shit. Maybe I should write this letter just to get that "release." Ah, fuck.
But, that was not my intention for this post and it's not what I'm going to do. I was going to write the story, from my recollection, of his death and the time leading up to it. I've really been slacking on writing in here and I need to get better. I still have some sliver of hope in my life thinking that somehow I might be able to make writing a source of income and happiness and be able to quit all these other bullshit jobs I've had through the years. So, here goes nothing. I can assure you that what follows, extremely few people have heard and my recollection may be a bit foggy at this point, but it's to the best of my ability. It will also be extremely difficult for me to write and you better believe, sure as you have a crack in your ass, that it's going to be long. Even though this post is already dreadfully lengthy.
My dad wasn't doing too well to begin with. He had colon cancer which they removed and thought it was successful. In a follow up visit they discovered it had come back and was inoperable. Basically, "Sorry, you're done for, Mr. Weaver. All we can really do is make sure you're comfortable up until however long it takes." I was a junior in college at GVSU at the time and was coming back to my hometown every weekend to spend time with dad and basically do anything he needed done that I could do for him. When we got this news, the talk of hospice came up. As a veteran of WWII, everything was covered for my dad through the VA. All we had to do was make the arrangements and do the damn thing. Through some tough conversations it was decided that I "wasn't dropping out of school" (as he put it) to take care of my dad and hospice was the thing we were doing. I still would be up every weekend to visit him in the hospital (about an hour's drive away from our house) and take care of the house and things since nobody would be living there through the week. All the shit like utility bills, car payments, credit card bills, whatever else, were now my responsibility to take care of too. Mind you, dad was still providing the cash to cover them, but I was in charge of seeing that it gets paid. I know a lot of other kids have had it tougher than me growing up, but it seemed like a lot of crap on my plate between classes, keeping all these affairs in order, knowing in the back of my mind that my dad was dying, and coming up every weekend to take care of stuff. It was overwhelming at times.
A new semester had just started and that brought along some of its own stress. It must have been the first week yet because I remember looking over the syllabi for some classes the day before I got the call. A call that happened at something like 2am. I didn't answer it, I remember hearing my phone ring but not answering because it was a night that I had class the next day and I figured it was just drunk people calling. That happens a lot in college and it might happen even more when you're in a fraternity. I remember the phone ringing, reaching down and pressing the silence button, and sending the call to voicemail. I didn't listen to it until I was up and getting ready the next day. When I did, it was from one of the doctors overseeing my dad. This is the VA, so all the doctors are from some foreign land far away and their accents are thick as hell. But, I had no trouble understanding what the dude said, "Hello, Mr. Weaver, I'm calling about your father, Earl. He has recently become... uhhh... unresponsive and I'm afraid I don't think he has much time left - a few days at most. If you have any questions, please feel free to call back any time."
In hindsight, I was kind of stupid. I can't explain why, but I just went about my school day. In my fucked up reasoning, that was the thing to do. Nevermind the fact that my dad could die, probably any second, I've got to walk around this goddamn campus and pretend like nothing is going on. Maybe I thought that's what he would want. Maybe I just didn't want to deal with the reality that I had to face. Maybe I really just was a fucking idiot to think that if I ignored it, it would go away. Maybe I thought it was a joke. I don't know, but it was stupid. I still can't explain it to myself, but it's what I did. I made it most of the day as if nothing was actually going on. Just another day. I even remember stopping in the spot where all my friends hung out and chatting and goofing off like nothing was happening - I didn't even make any mention to anyone about the phone call I received. Nope. just another day.
I made it through most of the day like that. I dunno how, but I did. Another shining example of my ability to hold in emotions when they're SCREAMING to be let out. Luckily, I think I've got a hang on that bottling it up stuff. I was in one of my last classes for the day, it might have been second to last. I remember it was a writing class that was NEEDED for graduation at GVSU. I think it was WRT350 for some reason. Class started and I made it about 40 minutes into the three hour class. I calmly gathered all my things, got up and walked out. Once outside the door I started that hurried walk some people do when they are about to shit their pants but don't want to outright run and the bathroom is in sight. I did that all the way to my car... feeling tears on the verge of bursting through but never quite getting there. I wanted to cry but also didn't want to face the potential ridicule I might face if someone saw me (and of course they fucking would, it's a college campus, there's people everywhere).
I don't remember if I went home first to get clothes or what. But, I knew I wasn't coming back right away. The next thing I do remember is merging on to the freeway and calling my mom, the tears (finally) flowing freely. Of course voicemail picked up and I left what I can only assume was an almost unintelligible message that went something like, "I got a call from dad's doctors and I think he's dying, he's at least unresponsive. I'm coming home and I'll see you in a few hours."
And that's where we'll leave it until I feel like I can write more of this... But, man, I need a break right now. To be continued in part two of however many pieces it takes me to finish...
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Thanks for putting it out there, I appreciate the honesty of it. There isn't a standard on how one handles grief I've learned. You deal with it, how you deal with it. I've known people that have fallen into nervous laughing, people who have ran away....people who organize and clean like maniacs to avoid having to process it. As long as you come out the other side. So you can't write the friggin' letter so what...you found another way. I hope this does bring some closure and lighten the load, or at least help you make peace with it. There should certainly not be any guilt, you dealt with it how you dealt with it, and came out the other side.
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