Even though I only lived a few blocks from the high school, I drove my car there–because I could.
I also went home for lunch even though it was basically against policy. Once again, because I could.
On April 20th, I decided to drive to my abode to raid the refrigerator, avoiding the cafeteria surprises. On my way I stopped off at my mom and dad’s little loan company and there was a note on the door. It read:
Closed. Family Emergency.
I knew what that meant.
My dad was in failing health. More accurately stated, he was dying. Forty-five years of cigarette smoking had caught up with him, riddling his body with cancer. So desperate was his situation that there was a quiet celebration among the family when it was discovered that the disease had spread to his brain and in doing so, had closed off the pain centers, making him less of the suffering soul.
I didn’t want to go to the house but I knew it was expected. I pulled up in the driveway and was climbing the steps to the porch when I first heard it: from the upstairs, through the walls, was the hideous volume of my dad gasping for air.
It was a death rattle.
I could not bring myself to go in. I turned around, headed back to school and was so angry–at my dad and at myself–that I skipped the next two classes.
I was furious at myself for being so cowardly, and a rotten person because I didn’t want to be near my father in his last moments.
And I was infuriated with him for destroying his body with smoke instead of dealing with his inadequacies.
I arrived back at school for the last hour of classes. After the session was over for the day I headed to a friend’s house and hung out for the rest of the evening.
Nobody knew where I was. I liked it that way.
I arrived home at ten o’clock. My older brother was waiting for me. He told me that our dad had passed away a couple of hours earlier.
I didn’t feel much, barely even noticing how pissed off my brother was that I hadn’t been there for the death-bed.
He was my dad–but I never knew him. And in like manner, he didn’t know that much about me.
Now he was dead. His ashes of ashes would turn to dust.
I cried.
Honestly, it was not for my lost parent. I cried, feeling sorry for myself.
He deserved a better son. But he should have been wise enough to realize that teenage sons don’t get better.
That is the duty and the mission … of a father.
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