a Journal/Blog/Thing
PerfectionsFlaw
Join Date: 2003-02-14 Member: 13555Members
Join Date: 2003-02-14 Member: 13555Members
<div class="IPBDescription">It's a little on the long side, if you can stand to read it.</div><b><i>Any comments or constructive criticism is welcome as this is a work in progress. Note, however, that this is a non-fiction account from my own perspective and that I already know I need therapy.</i></b>
It’s five am on May 21st of 2009 and I’m thinking about my father. Earlier today I was on the phone with my aunts explaining the situation. Not thinking about what to say so much as saying what I felt, nothing good. I tell them I love them as if it’s required to copy them once they say “I love you sweetie, keep me updated.†Or “I’ll call you tomorrow and see if anything’s changed.â€
It’s a few minutes after five and I’m outside on the porch in the rain like an idiot smoking a cigarette like an even larger idiot. It’s been cold for the last two days with a gentle rain that keeps falling and a wind that won’t let up. Sitting at the edge of the steps of our deteriorating deck I’m thinking about my father. I’m thinking about arrangements. I’m thinking that it’s pretty cold and I could always go inside and throw on another sweater or some long sleeves beneath this windbreaker but, that would interrupt my smoke. For some reason I come to believe that from this point on that no matter how much I put on to shield myself from the cold it will always be there. I will always be cold.
As I’m sure everyone does at that point I run through all the possibilities that Friday hold as soon as this new day that hasn’t even begun comes to an end. My brain stops for a second, too much thought required. The rain doesn’t so much bother me as annoy me. Like an infant lying in the same bed in the throes of a dream flailing his limbs around. It doesn’t comfort me either. My girlfriend rolling over to place her arm over my chest and pull me closer towards her warm body, for a second I find myself content and then uneasy again. The cat annoys me. Soaking wet and still wanting me to pet him, trying to rub my legs with his wet fur and make me feel sympathetic to his current state. I kick him away several times before he gets the point. Sitting on my father’s porch, wearing his sneakers, staring at his old beat up ford Taurus, staring at the reason he is dying.
Six am time for another cigarette, I smoke too much. My excuse is that the gravity of my present situation is too stressful. I have to think and to think I need to smoke. To think clearly I need the nicotine to enter my brain and the tar into my lungs. It’s the action of the thing, the motions. Taking one out of the pack and carefully placing it between my lips. Picking up my lighter and getting a survey of the weather outside before I go. So I know what to wear for my few minutes of clarity outside.
The cat is at my feet again, purring and rearing back on his hind legs to rub his soft head against my cargo shorts, he’s persistent, I kick him harder. Maybe he gets the point this time. For a moment he glances up at me from the grass surprised even though on some level he must’ve known that was coming. Then without another second of pause he begins to bathe himself. Every time he touches anyone he must bathe himself. As if we’re disgusting or as if he is above us. However, still dependant on us, I’m reminded, as he stares at the glass door looking inward waiting for someone else to emerge with his breakfast.
Six-twenty and I come to the realization that if I can’t smoke while writing this any chance of a book is doomed. When I have a cigarette lit my only concern is to finish what I started, nothing else. Just the tobacco slowly killing me like it has done my father. This is the third time he has had pneumonia. Third time is a charm I suppose. He has been sedated for the last four days, with no real improvement no real change. Whether for better or worse he is the same as he was the morning the ambulance came while I slept.
Since his eyes closed and the medication took him under for the past four days I’ve been in contact with all his remaining brothers and sisters. I felt that he wasn’t long for this world and that they should know. That I could finally truly discover how they feel about my father. Would they come to see him in a hospital bed or would they wait for a casket? His remaining sisters feel like they may come before his death, his brothers after… if at all.
It’s important that you, the reader, of this (document, book, blog, whatever it may become) know that I am of unsound mind. Nicotine isn’t the only drug in my life. I may avoid the larger life-altering substances but, I’ve discovered prescription drugs and fallen headfirst into the Rx bottle. Though it’s rarely I take them to experience a high or low. Often they aren’t taken for any form of recreation. I take them to survive another day, to keep myself from thoughts of suicide or violence. Perhaps this is why I’ve been hit so hard by present circumstance. I haven’t created a schedule and they wear off eventually. I have to remember to take them before I need them. I have an appointment made to speak to a psychiatrist so you know. I tell you this not only to put you at ease but, myself as well.
It’s seven now and I’m struggling to keep myself away from the mattress. I need to take my mother to go see her husband in an hour and a half. We need to talk to the doctors about his condition and treatment options. I need to be in the intensive care unit again watching my father die as helplessly as the cat stares inside the door waiting for food. Every visit grows harder as I learned in jail that hope is painful and useless, I’ve discarded that emotion. My sister’s middle name, Heather Hope…
Sounds impossible to lose an emotion? Bigger ones like fear and love, yes, smaller ones that spark larger ones are becoming easier to lose as I grow older. The feeling of cold looms over me again, not to envelope, just to serve as a reminder. I need to make coffee and eat something. While I’m at it I might as well feed the ###### cat.
Nine-thirty on Saturday I receive a call on my father’s cell phone. I flip the face open and speak to a nurse. She says my father’s conditioning has worsened. His blood pressure has dropped significantly, I think nothing of it. For the last week they have been giving mom updates on this phone and the house phone about his condition, right? I hang up. In less than a ten seconds I receive another call, his attending physician. He informs me that not only has my father’s blood pressure dropped but, his heart is failing and they are performing CPR in an attempt to revive him. After telling him we will be there as soon as possible I run to my mother. “Get dressed now!†and then to my sister, “Put your shoes on now!â€
My thoughts aren’t of the two children sleeping in my room, Dawn’s daughters. As I shout at my sister to crank the car I dash next door to Miss Crawford’s. I knock at the door to be greeted by her bewildered daughter, whom I have only met twice before. I ask her to watch the children, Christian and Rena, who are sound asleep. The reason will not escape my mouth. I cannot say my father is dying. My eyes are watering up at the idea of him dying. “It’s my father! Something’s wrong at the hospital!†She agrees to watch the girls. I run back through the muddy ground splashing up rain water all over my pants as I make my way to the car, his car.
I remember driving really fast, I remember my brother returning a call I made to him not a few minutes ago while I was putting on my own shoes. The only message I left him was, “Get to the hospital now!†Confused, he asks what’s going on. No one but me knew why I was so irate at that point. My sister and mother both stare at me while I answer his question. I repeat what the doctor had told me. My mother begins to cry, grasping at tissues to dry her bloodshot eyes.
We all three run into the emergency entrance to Satilla Regional, stopped by a locked door I turn back to the security station to demand the guard to open it. It opens, we walk fast to the other end of the hospital and are met by Joshua, my brother. I slam the elevator call button and we pile in destination second floor Intensive Care Unit. We hurry towards the entrance to ICU and CCU pounding the three digit code to request the nurse at the desk to open it. The PA system attached to the door code comes alive with an elderly black woman’s voice.
“May I help you?â€
I exclaim that we are the Briefman family and demand that the door be opened immediately.
“Hold, please. You have to wait for the nurses to finish what they’re doing with him.â€
My sister is pale and frantic she can take no more waiting it makes her sick to her stomach. She races to the bathroom to vomit and hurries back to our mother’s side. While waiting I couldn’t help notice the security officer standing at the door through the small pane of plexi-glass. Either I was about to be arrested again or they were expecting a terrible reaction from someone. I don’t much believe in coincidences, I fear for the worst as I have done all the praying I could have up to this point. I could not think of one more word to say to God.
None of us are ready when the doors open. There are at least a half-dozen nurses and my father’s physician, doctor Udeh. As I am the first one to bolt through the door he extends his hand to shake mine, the pit in my stomach grows ever so deeper. He offers the same courtesy to the rest of my family which I do not see him do as I am walking terribly fast towards room seven, my father’s room. The curtain is pulled shut, it’s never been closed before, the blinds are wide open and I can see three more nurses pushing the machines that were keeping him alive the past week into the far corners of the room. Through the blinds I see that there are no IVs running into his wrists anymore. The respirator tube that was that was controlling his breathing was no longer in his mouth. His chest wasn’t moving and I couldn’t help think as I threw the curtain open that his jaw was at such a funny angle in proportion to his head. Nothing about the way he looked was right and I knew that our lives would never be the same.
It was ten o’ clock and my father, Allen Briefman, passed away at nine forty-five.
As his doctor begins to explain the events of the last half hour my mother is overwhelmed with grief and reaches out for Joshua, the nearest person to her, as she cries. “No, no, no- I can’t live without him.†The words are abruptly stopped by her sobbing as the tears that she was holding back with all her might on the drive to the hospital are released.
“At nine-thirty his blood pressure dropped dramatically which was followed by his heart stopping. We called a code and began doing CPR in an attempt to resuscitate him.†His voice was drowning out, not by someone else’s or even the cries of my family, but by the voice in my own mind. Repeating the same thing over and over again,
“What am I supposed to do now? What do I do now? What the ###### am I supposed to do!?â€
My sister, Heather, turns back to look at me after several minutes of my brother arguing with the doctor about opening our father up and doing a heart massage in another act to try to bring life to his body. While Joshua politely puts his two cents in, Heather looks at me with her eyes so sad all I can do is look back blankly. Distraught, I cannot find the words to comfort her. I feel helpless, I feel broken and finally I understand every sad song and every heart-wrenching scene of every movie made in the history of film. It makes sense to me how people can feel so much pain and now that I understand all of this, I wish that I didn’t.
We stood by his side for two hours holding his hands and caressing his hair. We each kissed him on his forehead and touched him because we all knew that this was it. Dad would never hug us again or tell us he loved us one more time. There would be no more yelling at each other at the top of our lungs and making fun of one another anymore. We all wish that we had hugged him one last time and told him that we loved him just one more time but, it was too late for that now.
While the rest of my family was comforting one another and mourning their loss I was pacing back and forth from the window to the door in disbelief. Heather reached out her hand to hold mine or to hug me and I shoved her away. I don’t know why I did that. My eyes watered and I blew my nose several times, but I couldn’t cry. Not yet.
I eventually left room seven, my family, and exited the hospital to light a cigarette. Sitting on the curb just outside the emergency entrance I called his family to inform them of his passing. Aunt Barbara was the first person I contacted and the only person to cry. My father’s half-sister had the closest relationship with him. Out of six living siblings, the other five sharing the same blood, the one furthest from actual kinship is the nearest to his heart. When I was through telling them all that he had passed away, I felt empty. I felt as if my purpose was filled and I could follow him to the next world now. A shiver ran down my spine as the reality of it all had found me again. The cold had found me again.
Heather called me while I was talking to my aunt Maxine and asked me to come back up. Again she offered me her hand, instead of smacking it away or walking to the other side of the room I said, “As long as it’s for you and not for me, I’ll take it.†In her eyes, for a moment, I saw spite for me that I could say such a thing at such a time. I don’t know why I said that. I held my sister’s hand for what felt like an hour before I let go to lean forward and kiss my father’s forehead again.
Time passes slowly from here on. Everyone is quiet and staring at his corpse. No more words to say. No more final kindnesses to a man that has left this world. There were no more words. Josh is the first to break the deafening silence. Asking how much longer we all wanted to stay. A nurse that we were all familiar with had already had mom sign over the body to the funeral home. She didn’t sign over her husband or our father but, his body. If ever there was a doubt that he still be alive in my head, let it be gone now as my father is.
I do not speak as quickly as I am staring at his chest beneath the hospital sheets, swearing that I had seen him take a breath and waiting for him to open his eyes. I do not speak because I know that I’m seeing things. If I were to say such a stupid thing as, “I saw him breathe!†I would inspire a fool’s hope that he may still be alive. Two hours after being pronounced dead I would claim a miracle and place an order for my straight jacket. Instead I hold my own breath and keep my illusions to myself.
Eventually, we talk Heather into taking our mother to get something to drink in the family waiting area, outside of ICU, away from dad’s body. It takes a few minutes for her to say goodbye to him before she exits the room, barely able to walk straight leaning on her daughter for support. I stand quietly by my father’s side holding his swollen hand, waiting for my brother and his girlfriend to leave me with dad. Joshua says, “I think Eric wants a few minutes with dad to himself.†His girlfriend, Dawn, hugs me. My brother hugs me too. I don’t hug either of them back. I stand with my arms limp, unresponsive.
I can hear Josh outside room seven talking with one of the nurses. I forget what about as I can only see his back and my attention is elsewhere. Once I’m sure he and Dawn have left me alone with my father all reservation is released. The granite wall of a seemingly emotionless ###### tumbles to the ground. The tears come and the thought that kept repeating itself in my head finally rolled off of my tongue.
“What am I supposed to do now?â€
Holding his hand for a second before trying to move his cold fingers I squeeze his palm lightly and ask him again.
“What the ###### am I supposed to do now?â€
All self control lost I fall to my knees and sob like my mother had when she first saw his lifeless body. I cry so hard that I almost gag for air. Holding his hand and the side of the bed I curse my father’s name for leaving me and plea for an answer to my question. I know that it is stupid to ask anything of a dead man but, I don’t think. Through blurry vision I stare at his tanned wrinkled face and whisper the question beneath my sobs. Somehow I summoned the strength to stand and placed my right hand on his head, my left beneath his chin and gently turn his head to face me. Dad’s skin is cold to the touch, he does not breathe, he does not blink, and he does not answer me.
The cold that had loomed over me for the last few days was all I could feel then. The tremor in my spine was the only answer I received, the limp motion of his head softly rolling back into the pillow once I let go, I curse god this time and remove the cross that guided me in the last few months from my neck never to wear it again. The cross would later burn with my father.
It is now March 26th, 2010 and has been nearly a year since I have written anything on this subject. My father had a small wake followed by his cremation. Many people that I have wanted to see for years did not show their faces. Dad’s side of the family seemed distant and broken as if tied to one another and no one else that shared the same blood. I find myself asking now of all time if we my immediate family has always been treated this way. Are we pariahs?
Not only on my father’s side are we shunned but my mother’s side as well. For the Loper side of the family only her brother and his immediate family came. Maybe twenty or so people cared enough about my father to say goodbye. His brother and my uncle, David, came to stay with us at home before his wake. He showed more compassion for my mother and sister than anyone else had. Strangely enough seeing him reminded me of dad if only just for their physical resemblance the same stringy arms and legs, the same nose.
I gathered that it had been a long time since the entire Briefman family had been together. David stayed long enough to see his brother Allen in his suit and tie that Josh had bought him for his mother’s funeral less than a year ago, which he disagreed with him wearing as he himself had worn a t-shirt and shorts. Now that I am writing the events of the wake I wonder… did David solely come to kiss his brother goodbye? It has been years since anyone has heard from him. It took my hours on the phone to contact him while dad was in the hospital. They all seemed so sad that he didn’t stay to see them especially his brother Julius, uncle Happy.
The family pet was an orange tabby cat, Poe, he died less than a month after dad. Our father never really liked felines very much. In retrospect I believe the ###### cat crossed over just to pester him in the after-life. The thought makes me laugh and I can’t keep myself from smiling about it. The night Poe passed I buried him in the backyard while the rain was hitting my back and my girlfriend Nikki was holding the flashlight. It is odd how many sad songs and scenes in movies take place in the rain. It seems like the rain knows just exactly when it should fall. It feels like a metaphor for a state of emotional distress, when the rains fall so do we. When it pours harder we are forced to face down at the ground no longer looking up at the sky. No longer day dreaming about the things we wish we could do, but instead thinking on the things we haven’t. In conclusion of this entry the rain is a ###### killjoy.
It’s five am on May 21st of 2009 and I’m thinking about my father. Earlier today I was on the phone with my aunts explaining the situation. Not thinking about what to say so much as saying what I felt, nothing good. I tell them I love them as if it’s required to copy them once they say “I love you sweetie, keep me updated.†Or “I’ll call you tomorrow and see if anything’s changed.â€
It’s a few minutes after five and I’m outside on the porch in the rain like an idiot smoking a cigarette like an even larger idiot. It’s been cold for the last two days with a gentle rain that keeps falling and a wind that won’t let up. Sitting at the edge of the steps of our deteriorating deck I’m thinking about my father. I’m thinking about arrangements. I’m thinking that it’s pretty cold and I could always go inside and throw on another sweater or some long sleeves beneath this windbreaker but, that would interrupt my smoke. For some reason I come to believe that from this point on that no matter how much I put on to shield myself from the cold it will always be there. I will always be cold.
As I’m sure everyone does at that point I run through all the possibilities that Friday hold as soon as this new day that hasn’t even begun comes to an end. My brain stops for a second, too much thought required. The rain doesn’t so much bother me as annoy me. Like an infant lying in the same bed in the throes of a dream flailing his limbs around. It doesn’t comfort me either. My girlfriend rolling over to place her arm over my chest and pull me closer towards her warm body, for a second I find myself content and then uneasy again. The cat annoys me. Soaking wet and still wanting me to pet him, trying to rub my legs with his wet fur and make me feel sympathetic to his current state. I kick him away several times before he gets the point. Sitting on my father’s porch, wearing his sneakers, staring at his old beat up ford Taurus, staring at the reason he is dying.
Six am time for another cigarette, I smoke too much. My excuse is that the gravity of my present situation is too stressful. I have to think and to think I need to smoke. To think clearly I need the nicotine to enter my brain and the tar into my lungs. It’s the action of the thing, the motions. Taking one out of the pack and carefully placing it between my lips. Picking up my lighter and getting a survey of the weather outside before I go. So I know what to wear for my few minutes of clarity outside.
The cat is at my feet again, purring and rearing back on his hind legs to rub his soft head against my cargo shorts, he’s persistent, I kick him harder. Maybe he gets the point this time. For a moment he glances up at me from the grass surprised even though on some level he must’ve known that was coming. Then without another second of pause he begins to bathe himself. Every time he touches anyone he must bathe himself. As if we’re disgusting or as if he is above us. However, still dependant on us, I’m reminded, as he stares at the glass door looking inward waiting for someone else to emerge with his breakfast.
Six-twenty and I come to the realization that if I can’t smoke while writing this any chance of a book is doomed. When I have a cigarette lit my only concern is to finish what I started, nothing else. Just the tobacco slowly killing me like it has done my father. This is the third time he has had pneumonia. Third time is a charm I suppose. He has been sedated for the last four days, with no real improvement no real change. Whether for better or worse he is the same as he was the morning the ambulance came while I slept.
Since his eyes closed and the medication took him under for the past four days I’ve been in contact with all his remaining brothers and sisters. I felt that he wasn’t long for this world and that they should know. That I could finally truly discover how they feel about my father. Would they come to see him in a hospital bed or would they wait for a casket? His remaining sisters feel like they may come before his death, his brothers after… if at all.
It’s important that you, the reader, of this (document, book, blog, whatever it may become) know that I am of unsound mind. Nicotine isn’t the only drug in my life. I may avoid the larger life-altering substances but, I’ve discovered prescription drugs and fallen headfirst into the Rx bottle. Though it’s rarely I take them to experience a high or low. Often they aren’t taken for any form of recreation. I take them to survive another day, to keep myself from thoughts of suicide or violence. Perhaps this is why I’ve been hit so hard by present circumstance. I haven’t created a schedule and they wear off eventually. I have to remember to take them before I need them. I have an appointment made to speak to a psychiatrist so you know. I tell you this not only to put you at ease but, myself as well.
It’s seven now and I’m struggling to keep myself away from the mattress. I need to take my mother to go see her husband in an hour and a half. We need to talk to the doctors about his condition and treatment options. I need to be in the intensive care unit again watching my father die as helplessly as the cat stares inside the door waiting for food. Every visit grows harder as I learned in jail that hope is painful and useless, I’ve discarded that emotion. My sister’s middle name, Heather Hope…
Sounds impossible to lose an emotion? Bigger ones like fear and love, yes, smaller ones that spark larger ones are becoming easier to lose as I grow older. The feeling of cold looms over me again, not to envelope, just to serve as a reminder. I need to make coffee and eat something. While I’m at it I might as well feed the ###### cat.
Nine-thirty on Saturday I receive a call on my father’s cell phone. I flip the face open and speak to a nurse. She says my father’s conditioning has worsened. His blood pressure has dropped significantly, I think nothing of it. For the last week they have been giving mom updates on this phone and the house phone about his condition, right? I hang up. In less than a ten seconds I receive another call, his attending physician. He informs me that not only has my father’s blood pressure dropped but, his heart is failing and they are performing CPR in an attempt to revive him. After telling him we will be there as soon as possible I run to my mother. “Get dressed now!†and then to my sister, “Put your shoes on now!â€
My thoughts aren’t of the two children sleeping in my room, Dawn’s daughters. As I shout at my sister to crank the car I dash next door to Miss Crawford’s. I knock at the door to be greeted by her bewildered daughter, whom I have only met twice before. I ask her to watch the children, Christian and Rena, who are sound asleep. The reason will not escape my mouth. I cannot say my father is dying. My eyes are watering up at the idea of him dying. “It’s my father! Something’s wrong at the hospital!†She agrees to watch the girls. I run back through the muddy ground splashing up rain water all over my pants as I make my way to the car, his car.
I remember driving really fast, I remember my brother returning a call I made to him not a few minutes ago while I was putting on my own shoes. The only message I left him was, “Get to the hospital now!†Confused, he asks what’s going on. No one but me knew why I was so irate at that point. My sister and mother both stare at me while I answer his question. I repeat what the doctor had told me. My mother begins to cry, grasping at tissues to dry her bloodshot eyes.
We all three run into the emergency entrance to Satilla Regional, stopped by a locked door I turn back to the security station to demand the guard to open it. It opens, we walk fast to the other end of the hospital and are met by Joshua, my brother. I slam the elevator call button and we pile in destination second floor Intensive Care Unit. We hurry towards the entrance to ICU and CCU pounding the three digit code to request the nurse at the desk to open it. The PA system attached to the door code comes alive with an elderly black woman’s voice.
“May I help you?â€
I exclaim that we are the Briefman family and demand that the door be opened immediately.
“Hold, please. You have to wait for the nurses to finish what they’re doing with him.â€
My sister is pale and frantic she can take no more waiting it makes her sick to her stomach. She races to the bathroom to vomit and hurries back to our mother’s side. While waiting I couldn’t help notice the security officer standing at the door through the small pane of plexi-glass. Either I was about to be arrested again or they were expecting a terrible reaction from someone. I don’t much believe in coincidences, I fear for the worst as I have done all the praying I could have up to this point. I could not think of one more word to say to God.
None of us are ready when the doors open. There are at least a half-dozen nurses and my father’s physician, doctor Udeh. As I am the first one to bolt through the door he extends his hand to shake mine, the pit in my stomach grows ever so deeper. He offers the same courtesy to the rest of my family which I do not see him do as I am walking terribly fast towards room seven, my father’s room. The curtain is pulled shut, it’s never been closed before, the blinds are wide open and I can see three more nurses pushing the machines that were keeping him alive the past week into the far corners of the room. Through the blinds I see that there are no IVs running into his wrists anymore. The respirator tube that was that was controlling his breathing was no longer in his mouth. His chest wasn’t moving and I couldn’t help think as I threw the curtain open that his jaw was at such a funny angle in proportion to his head. Nothing about the way he looked was right and I knew that our lives would never be the same.
It was ten o’ clock and my father, Allen Briefman, passed away at nine forty-five.
As his doctor begins to explain the events of the last half hour my mother is overwhelmed with grief and reaches out for Joshua, the nearest person to her, as she cries. “No, no, no- I can’t live without him.†The words are abruptly stopped by her sobbing as the tears that she was holding back with all her might on the drive to the hospital are released.
“At nine-thirty his blood pressure dropped dramatically which was followed by his heart stopping. We called a code and began doing CPR in an attempt to resuscitate him.†His voice was drowning out, not by someone else’s or even the cries of my family, but by the voice in my own mind. Repeating the same thing over and over again,
“What am I supposed to do now? What do I do now? What the ###### am I supposed to do!?â€
My sister, Heather, turns back to look at me after several minutes of my brother arguing with the doctor about opening our father up and doing a heart massage in another act to try to bring life to his body. While Joshua politely puts his two cents in, Heather looks at me with her eyes so sad all I can do is look back blankly. Distraught, I cannot find the words to comfort her. I feel helpless, I feel broken and finally I understand every sad song and every heart-wrenching scene of every movie made in the history of film. It makes sense to me how people can feel so much pain and now that I understand all of this, I wish that I didn’t.
We stood by his side for two hours holding his hands and caressing his hair. We each kissed him on his forehead and touched him because we all knew that this was it. Dad would never hug us again or tell us he loved us one more time. There would be no more yelling at each other at the top of our lungs and making fun of one another anymore. We all wish that we had hugged him one last time and told him that we loved him just one more time but, it was too late for that now.
While the rest of my family was comforting one another and mourning their loss I was pacing back and forth from the window to the door in disbelief. Heather reached out her hand to hold mine or to hug me and I shoved her away. I don’t know why I did that. My eyes watered and I blew my nose several times, but I couldn’t cry. Not yet.
I eventually left room seven, my family, and exited the hospital to light a cigarette. Sitting on the curb just outside the emergency entrance I called his family to inform them of his passing. Aunt Barbara was the first person I contacted and the only person to cry. My father’s half-sister had the closest relationship with him. Out of six living siblings, the other five sharing the same blood, the one furthest from actual kinship is the nearest to his heart. When I was through telling them all that he had passed away, I felt empty. I felt as if my purpose was filled and I could follow him to the next world now. A shiver ran down my spine as the reality of it all had found me again. The cold had found me again.
Heather called me while I was talking to my aunt Maxine and asked me to come back up. Again she offered me her hand, instead of smacking it away or walking to the other side of the room I said, “As long as it’s for you and not for me, I’ll take it.†In her eyes, for a moment, I saw spite for me that I could say such a thing at such a time. I don’t know why I said that. I held my sister’s hand for what felt like an hour before I let go to lean forward and kiss my father’s forehead again.
Time passes slowly from here on. Everyone is quiet and staring at his corpse. No more words to say. No more final kindnesses to a man that has left this world. There were no more words. Josh is the first to break the deafening silence. Asking how much longer we all wanted to stay. A nurse that we were all familiar with had already had mom sign over the body to the funeral home. She didn’t sign over her husband or our father but, his body. If ever there was a doubt that he still be alive in my head, let it be gone now as my father is.
I do not speak as quickly as I am staring at his chest beneath the hospital sheets, swearing that I had seen him take a breath and waiting for him to open his eyes. I do not speak because I know that I’m seeing things. If I were to say such a stupid thing as, “I saw him breathe!†I would inspire a fool’s hope that he may still be alive. Two hours after being pronounced dead I would claim a miracle and place an order for my straight jacket. Instead I hold my own breath and keep my illusions to myself.
Eventually, we talk Heather into taking our mother to get something to drink in the family waiting area, outside of ICU, away from dad’s body. It takes a few minutes for her to say goodbye to him before she exits the room, barely able to walk straight leaning on her daughter for support. I stand quietly by my father’s side holding his swollen hand, waiting for my brother and his girlfriend to leave me with dad. Joshua says, “I think Eric wants a few minutes with dad to himself.†His girlfriend, Dawn, hugs me. My brother hugs me too. I don’t hug either of them back. I stand with my arms limp, unresponsive.
I can hear Josh outside room seven talking with one of the nurses. I forget what about as I can only see his back and my attention is elsewhere. Once I’m sure he and Dawn have left me alone with my father all reservation is released. The granite wall of a seemingly emotionless ###### tumbles to the ground. The tears come and the thought that kept repeating itself in my head finally rolled off of my tongue.
“What am I supposed to do now?â€
Holding his hand for a second before trying to move his cold fingers I squeeze his palm lightly and ask him again.
“What the ###### am I supposed to do now?â€
All self control lost I fall to my knees and sob like my mother had when she first saw his lifeless body. I cry so hard that I almost gag for air. Holding his hand and the side of the bed I curse my father’s name for leaving me and plea for an answer to my question. I know that it is stupid to ask anything of a dead man but, I don’t think. Through blurry vision I stare at his tanned wrinkled face and whisper the question beneath my sobs. Somehow I summoned the strength to stand and placed my right hand on his head, my left beneath his chin and gently turn his head to face me. Dad’s skin is cold to the touch, he does not breathe, he does not blink, and he does not answer me.
The cold that had loomed over me for the last few days was all I could feel then. The tremor in my spine was the only answer I received, the limp motion of his head softly rolling back into the pillow once I let go, I curse god this time and remove the cross that guided me in the last few months from my neck never to wear it again. The cross would later burn with my father.
It is now March 26th, 2010 and has been nearly a year since I have written anything on this subject. My father had a small wake followed by his cremation. Many people that I have wanted to see for years did not show their faces. Dad’s side of the family seemed distant and broken as if tied to one another and no one else that shared the same blood. I find myself asking now of all time if we my immediate family has always been treated this way. Are we pariahs?
Not only on my father’s side are we shunned but my mother’s side as well. For the Loper side of the family only her brother and his immediate family came. Maybe twenty or so people cared enough about my father to say goodbye. His brother and my uncle, David, came to stay with us at home before his wake. He showed more compassion for my mother and sister than anyone else had. Strangely enough seeing him reminded me of dad if only just for their physical resemblance the same stringy arms and legs, the same nose.
I gathered that it had been a long time since the entire Briefman family had been together. David stayed long enough to see his brother Allen in his suit and tie that Josh had bought him for his mother’s funeral less than a year ago, which he disagreed with him wearing as he himself had worn a t-shirt and shorts. Now that I am writing the events of the wake I wonder… did David solely come to kiss his brother goodbye? It has been years since anyone has heard from him. It took my hours on the phone to contact him while dad was in the hospital. They all seemed so sad that he didn’t stay to see them especially his brother Julius, uncle Happy.
The family pet was an orange tabby cat, Poe, he died less than a month after dad. Our father never really liked felines very much. In retrospect I believe the ###### cat crossed over just to pester him in the after-life. The thought makes me laugh and I can’t keep myself from smiling about it. The night Poe passed I buried him in the backyard while the rain was hitting my back and my girlfriend Nikki was holding the flashlight. It is odd how many sad songs and scenes in movies take place in the rain. It seems like the rain knows just exactly when it should fall. It feels like a metaphor for a state of emotional distress, when the rains fall so do we. When it pours harder we are forced to face down at the ground no longer looking up at the sky. No longer day dreaming about the things we wish we could do, but instead thinking on the things we haven’t. In conclusion of this entry the rain is a ###### killjoy.
Comments
Good luck for the future.
After everyone leaves and i am alone with my father and we talk about how things used to be, and how they will be from now on now that we have to continue on our own from now on, at least for a while. When my father falls asleep on the couch from exhaustion i cover him with a blanket and go to bed myself. I couldn't sleep.
Today has been filled with the undertaker coming to our house to talk about the coming ceremony. We had to pick out music we wanted during the ceremony, flowers, a coffin, write an obituary, and so on. My mind was blank during all of it. My father works close to home and to get some distraction decided to drop in for work after the undertaker leaves, and maybe do some light work. I'm at home and decide to turn on my computer for some distraction myself. The church people should be here around 3, so some alone time to check my email wasn't all that bad. My inbox was filled with email from people wishing us the best, as was my phone which has been turned off since the hospital yesterday morning. It's good knowing i have good friends.
With my mind still blank i just start clicking some random sites in my favorites list and i end up here and i see this post.
I don't believe in fate or anything but it's uncanny that such a coincidence exists.
I just wanted you to know i think i understand what situation you were/are in. I wish you all the best.
By the way, it's raining here too.
-Nossah
@PerfectionsFlaw: Stop smoking.
--Scythe--
I suppose I never really get people dying. I'm not really unhappy for them because they have nothing to be unhappy about nor any way to be unhappy about it, but it's a shame that people who were present are so affected by it. I worry more for them than I do for anyone else. For me I just accept that death is unavoidable, I am defined by the people I have met, and every time someone dies I lose another part of my life, and eventually there won't be any left. It's not desirable but there's nothing much I can do about it, so I don't fret too much.
Shame we aren't immortal though. I often find myself annoyed that we aren't when people die, as it is most unfair to be denied control over your life like that. But then the world generally is and there's not much I can do about that either.
Hopefully you'll feel better eventually, I find that I forget everything eventually and then I feel much better.
Oh also you write like a crime drama so if you actually do want to write a book you could probably give it a good shot.
This is one of my favorite pieces: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s</a>
This is one of my favorite pieces: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s</a><!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
Never have I been so certain that I was about to be rickrolled.
--Scythe--
P.S. I wasn't.
This is one of my favorite pieces: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNSl8nhoPlE#t=0m45s</a><!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
Anime music it may be although it was rather good so were some of the links off the vid.
Five years ago, give or take, I felt the same way about the rain Chris. Too much has changed since then and I don't look at it the way I used to anymore.
fixed.
Overall the piece is very well written, and if you're hoping to write professionally I'd say you're well on your way.
I wish I had something to say about the subject matter besides "sorry for your loss", but really I don't know what I could add. I sympathize but there's no way I can really feel or understand your pain because I haven't lost anyone close to me yet.
Sorry for your loss.
edit: dammit, now that Bleach song is stuck in my head