Dad’s checking out is a tough one. There’s not much that prepares you for it. You know the sketch of my dad’s final year, so I feel you on this one. But from one ex catholic to another, life happens. You were a kid. Remember the laughs and stick that guilt to the sticking place. And keep scribing - create it out.
Be well. I hope William can spread some salve to you and michael.
This isn’t meant to be comforting or proselytizing. Dukkha, a Pali word in Buddhism, refers to suffering, unsatisfactoriness, or stress. It is a central teaching of Buddhism — being one of the three marks of existence, along with anicca (impermanence) and anattā (without a lasting essence) — and the first of the Four Noble Truths. Everything about existence — from our bodily sensations to our emotional feelings, to our perceptions, to every single momentary emotional experience, to cognition (everything that we have insight into, remember, know for a fact to be true) to consciousness — contributes to Dukkha.
This is a very human, and specifically American, story. You should post this on RedBook so Chinese people can see just how much of a dystopia we have become.
I'm two years older than your dad. Mine went by way of Alzheimer's and leukemia, never forgiving me for refusing to live my life as he had planned it, though he only wanted what he thought was best for me, which is why I, unlike most of my Boomer peers, received zero inheritance.
My wife and I are maybe 4 missing paychecks away from living as you are, and we're better off than most Americans, which should be downright frightening. All I can tell you is that the seven stages of grief are real, and time makes old wounds easier to live with, though they never totally go away.
Hang in there. I'll ask Freya, goddess of hearth and home, to send you a blessing that has some utility.
My family was the idyllic 60s story; Dad made a decent living at The Bureau, mom was a homemaker, church three times a week, two smart boys in reasonable health. Behind closed doors we were a sad mess ‘cause mama crazy, but the worst of it was nothing like what the author went through.
Mom and Dad managed to maintain their semblance of a marriage to its sweeter end in senile dementia; died within four months of each other, 12 years ago now. They were good to me, they loved me, I loved them too, crazy AF and all, but I never did grieve them much. They just seemed so done with life.
My brother, now, he is a different story.
I just sat here an hour, trying to outline what his alcoholism did to him, did to us. Deleted all that.
He’s the only alcoholic our family ever had, so I had no anti-drunk emotional shell to climb into, no defense against loving the worthless shit, still don’t. His ashes have been under the big beech on the back of our property for almost two years: early onset senile dementia due to long term alcohol abuse. I still feel like I failed him, still miss him all the time. Asshole.
Why do I give a damn? He did exactly what he wanted, every day of his short, wasted, useless life. He stole our parents’ retirement years, spent their substance on himself. He put me and my family through hell at the end.
But he knew me, knew our shared childhoods, hid from Mom with me, still popped off with my name the last time I saw him, when he could not make another intelligible sound. His death strands all my early memory here in this one skull, leaves me alone in a way I have never been alone before. Oh my brother, my brother.
Rich hang in there with me until the end of January. Whatever’s left over, I’ll send to you and Michael. Best regards to you both.
Dad’s checking out is a tough one. There’s not much that prepares you for it. You know the sketch of my dad’s final year, so I feel you on this one. But from one ex catholic to another, life happens. You were a kid. Remember the laughs and stick that guilt to the sticking place. And keep scribing - create it out.
Be well. I hope William can spread some salve to you and michael.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=20qKefYI4GA
I am really sorry for your loss. Stay strong.
This isn’t meant to be comforting or proselytizing. Dukkha, a Pali word in Buddhism, refers to suffering, unsatisfactoriness, or stress. It is a central teaching of Buddhism — being one of the three marks of existence, along with anicca (impermanence) and anattā (without a lasting essence) — and the first of the Four Noble Truths. Everything about existence — from our bodily sensations to our emotional feelings, to our perceptions, to every single momentary emotional experience, to cognition (everything that we have insight into, remember, know for a fact to be true) to consciousness — contributes to Dukkha.
This is a very human, and specifically American, story. You should post this on RedBook so Chinese people can see just how much of a dystopia we have become.
I'm two years older than your dad. Mine went by way of Alzheimer's and leukemia, never forgiving me for refusing to live my life as he had planned it, though he only wanted what he thought was best for me, which is why I, unlike most of my Boomer peers, received zero inheritance.
My wife and I are maybe 4 missing paychecks away from living as you are, and we're better off than most Americans, which should be downright frightening. All I can tell you is that the seven stages of grief are real, and time makes old wounds easier to live with, though they never totally go away.
Hang in there. I'll ask Freya, goddess of hearth and home, to send you a blessing that has some utility.
My family was the idyllic 60s story; Dad made a decent living at The Bureau, mom was a homemaker, church three times a week, two smart boys in reasonable health. Behind closed doors we were a sad mess ‘cause mama crazy, but the worst of it was nothing like what the author went through.
Mom and Dad managed to maintain their semblance of a marriage to its sweeter end in senile dementia; died within four months of each other, 12 years ago now. They were good to me, they loved me, I loved them too, crazy AF and all, but I never did grieve them much. They just seemed so done with life.
My brother, now, he is a different story.
I just sat here an hour, trying to outline what his alcoholism did to him, did to us. Deleted all that.
He’s the only alcoholic our family ever had, so I had no anti-drunk emotional shell to climb into, no defense against loving the worthless shit, still don’t. His ashes have been under the big beech on the back of our property for almost two years: early onset senile dementia due to long term alcohol abuse. I still feel like I failed him, still miss him all the time. Asshole.
Why do I give a damn? He did exactly what he wanted, every day of his short, wasted, useless life. He stole our parents’ retirement years, spent their substance on himself. He put me and my family through hell at the end.
But he knew me, knew our shared childhoods, hid from Mom with me, still popped off with my name the last time I saw him, when he could not make another intelligible sound. His death strands all my early memory here in this one skull, leaves me alone in a way I have never been alone before. Oh my brother, my brother.
Rich hang in there with me until the end of January. Whatever’s left over, I’ll send to you and Michael. Best regards to you both.