Does Death Mean I Don't Matter?

I have sat down a few times to try to write this, but I just didn’t know where it would lead or if I even wanted to go there. At times, I wondered if I should even write because now, it seems, a lot of my motivation to write and deal with the cards that life has dealt just isn’t there. It’s a feeling sort of like when you go on a date. And while you are on that date you just know that there won’t be another one. You can’t explain the feeling or know why, but you know that there won’t be another date for that person. That’s sort of the feeling, I guess.

I am also trying to write this without the aid of Sapphire, but I think I am going to have to tip the bottle after all. I just proved to myself that while I might not make sense writing while drinking, I definitely don’t make sense when I don’t because I feel like I have to write properly, that I can’t just focus, tap the keys and see what magically appears in the end.

Ahhhh. Bailey’s Irish Cream. The Elixir of the Gods, soothing my soul as it makes its way down. My mind is suddenly flooded with nothing but good memories from the times I and others got together and drank Bailey’s: buttery nipples down on Settler’s Landing, shots at 0800 while playing golf in cold weather, sniffers while fishing……………good times, good drinks, great friendships. Maybe, just maybe, I can now somehow come to grips with why I feel bad about not feeling worse.

I guess if you are not part of the inner workings of my life, you may not be aware that my father passed on October 5th. I’m not going into the details, but I just can’t get the image of my 83-year old father crawling on hands and knees, trying to make it to his oxygen out of my mind. Nor can I even comprehend the strength and courage it took for my brother to perform CPR on OUR father.

I can’t understand why on the 5th I was such a damn basket case all day, wanting to be comforted yet not being able to be around people. I dealt with it that day like I have every single damn major event I have had to deal with in my life: ALONE. Is that my own choosing? Yes, so I guess I probably shouldn’t bitch. But I feel like if I cry on someone’s shoulder that I am burdening them with my problems when they more than likely have their own. So I chose and have chosen to deal with it by not dealing with it, at least with others around.

But like most things in life, there isn’t a lot of understanding about things. But like few things in life, I have absolutely no regrets. But now I wonder if what I feel or if my opinion even matters.
As was expected, the existential meltdown that seems to encompass family members during mourning happened on Tuesday (the funeral was on a Sunday). At one point I asked some questions and was immediately called out on the carpet by one of my family members.

(NOTE: I live in VA. My family lives in AL) “Who the fuck are you talking to?” they asked me. “What fucking right do YOU have when you were never fucking here? You never fucking came home. You fucking never called mom and dad regularly. They worried about your fucking ass but you didn’t do what you were supposed to do as a son. So you have no fucking right to say anything to me you fucking asshole. So keep your fucking mouth shut because what you fucking have to say doesn’t fucking matter.”

“My relationship,” I replied “between my parents and I has nothing to do with you. It’s between us.”

Maybe it was then. Maybe that’s when it all came to light. Maybe I should have followed my instincts and duked it out with my family member so we could get it out of our systems. Maybe, I should have just walked away instead of sitting there and listening to more.

But I think it was then that I realized that what I had been thinking all this time actually was true: that while yes, I am a part of that family, I no longer belong. I don’t belong down there. I left home at 18 and never really returned. Sure, I might have visited over the years, but I have to wonder if I was ever really there once I left? I think my family member was right: I don’t matter any more. I’m NOT there helping. My life has gone back to the way it was before the death while the lives of my brothers have changed because they are now responsible for ensuring our mother is taken care of.

Don’t get me wrong. I am definitely not throwing a pity party. I’m just facing facts because I have had a long time to think about this in the last three weeks. Even after going home again this past weekend, the void seemed to be much larger than normal. And I don’t want you to think that I don’t care for or love my brothers either. Hell, I am probably the most thankful person in the world that they ARE there to be able to tend to our mother as good as they have. In a selfish way, that’s just one more thing I don’t really have to worry about because they take such good care of her. My brothers are God sent Angels, trust me. But……………………….

I arrived on the morning of the 6th. The first chance I got I went to the package store and bought some gin and tonic water and made it through the day by going through a fifth. People and food every damn where. While I appreciate the food and the condolences that came with it, my hero was still gone.
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My father lay in bed in the South Alabama Medical Center in the early part of 1990, having just had his quadruple bypass surgery when I got the call. The phone at my mom’s house rang one morning while I was there. It was Major John Clark letting me know that upon my return to Virginia I would deploy immediately in support of the ground operation during Desert Storm. I told my mom and brothers, and we discussed the best way to tell my father.

Shortly after my father’s release from the hospital, my brothers and I were sitting on the porch discussing whether we should tell him or not, when he walked out. Because of our immediate silence, he knew something was up and asked us what was going on.

“well,” I said, hesitating, “I’m going.”

My dad looked down, obviously thrown back some 50 + years to his days it Italy. As his unit was storming this hill, they came under sever mortar attack. A piece of shrapnel pierced my dad’s back, severing his left lung. He said he lay there thinking he was going to die and thought about his momma. He told me he knew his momma would be upset to the point of not being able to handle it because my father was the only son. As he lay there, his unit then came under sniper attach and he was shot in the leg. He laughed as he told me that when he was shot in the leg that the pain was so fierce he realized he wasn’t close to death after all. He said his leg hurt worse than his lung wound. He was eventually awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star for bravery.

He eventually looked up, but not at me or any of us. “just” he began. “just don’t try to be a hero. “

That was all he said, but I knew he was saying more. He wanted me to come home. He wanted me to come home, alive. But he didn’t know that I WANTED to come home a hero because I wanted to be just like him…………………..