Death

I got a phone call from my brother two days ago. He was calling to tell me that our father is dying.  Brain cancer that started in the lungs (as far as we know).  The man was, and likely still is, a very heavy smoker from the time he hit puberty so the lung cancer was no surprise.  My brother doesn't know exactly what's what as our Dad has a brand of his own truth at all times.  According to him, he's fine.  His caretaker says there are tumors (the word inoperable may have been used) and Dad has lost the use of the left side of his body.  Maybe the truth is somewhere in the middle.

Please, do not be sad for me or wish me well with this.  I will agree that death is awful and should be taken to heart, that it should never be looked at or taken lightly.  But, my father is a monster.  A positively vile man that should have died so long ago.  I have lost much better people in my life, people that deserved to live and would actually contribute beauty to this world rather than depreciate its' value as he does.

So, why am I writing this?  I don't know.  I guess I'm trying to figure out how I feel.  It's weird, but, I feel sad in a way.  This man, this monster, is my father.  He has sinned beyond the seemingly endless bounds of forgiveness, yet a part of me still loves him.  I think. (I feel like a bad person just saying that I love him.  How messed up is that?) I have fond memories of times we spent together as I was growing up.  He was a good Dad.  He was around, he was kind, he was there when I needed him.  But, then he wasn't.  Now, after giving all he did to me as a child, I am letting him sit and rot from the inside out, alone.  I guess I am feeling some innate child-parent bond that leads to me feel obligated to care for him in the way that he cared for me.  Logically, I know that he severed any and all obligations that I could have to him, but my brain and my emotions are having a hard time communicating on this issue.

I wrote my father a letter when I first learned that he was sick (6months or so ago).  I sent it to him with a return envelope, hoping to entice a response.  He wrote back right away.  In my letter I asked for admittance of wrong doings.  I told him there was no blame or anger that would come, I just wanted him to be able to rest peacefully having cleansed his guilt or whatever.  I mostly expected him to write back maintaining his innocent, clean persona, but a small romantic part of me envisioned the letter full of remorse and apology.  Guess what?  He's "innocent" and I'm okay with that.  I gave him a chance, I said my two-cents, and then there's also that part of me that just wanted to say "I'm Alive!  Hello! WTH?"  The last time that I actually spoke to my father was when I was 17 years old.  We spoke on the phone, said angry words, and it was over.  I've seen him one time since then, an accidental almost-run in at the grocery store.  We didn't speak.  I just kept walking, refusing to turn around, fearing that he might also be looking back.  Since then I have kept very loose tabs on him.  I've always had a general idea of where I thought he might be living.  (This wasn't too hard since he didn't move more than 50 miles in the last 16 years).  I didn't want to run into him or see him.  I didn't want to say things I'd later regret or later regret things I didn't say.  Now, I will not have that chance.  I will not see him before he dies.  Even if it takes a year, even if I am back in the US visiting and he is still alive, I will not see him. He will die.  My brother will call.  I guess only then will I know how I really feel.  It's like I am afraid to admit it to myself until the final verdict is in.

So that's what's going on here.  It's a weird place in my head right now.  Remember the childhood fantasy we all had that we were adopted?  Maybe that really is true for me, maybe half of my DNA isn't monster.  Soon my real dad will show up and he'll be rich and handsome....happily ever after...the end.