My Father Died, Sitting Upright, on the Side of His Bed
[Edit: This was first published on my personal blog a few weeks ago. I was in the middle of going through my father's belongings after he passed. He didn't leave a will or any kind of legal direction for anything, so it was up to me and my step-sister to sort out his stuff, organize it, and start closing up his accounts or consolidating them.
My step-mother was a bit of a pain in the ass during this process. She was doing things just to do them; emptying out his room (they slept in separate beds), donating his body to research before we got to view it, etc. She meant well, but there was no cohesive plan to her approach, so she ended up being more in the way than not. This post was my attempt to try and work through all my thoughts while having a few drinks late one night.
https://buchorodenberger.blogspot.com/2019/11/my-father-died-sitting-upright-on-side.html]
It's an interesting image to have in your head, the patriarch taking his last breath while either readying himself for slumber or readying himself for his own kind of war on the day. Two disparate ideas at odds with each other and yet equally viable. While I hate saying it, I think my father had given up on fighting against the day a long time ago. After combing through the scattered bits of life left behind in written form and reminiscing over the several thousand conversations with him over the years, I think he was ready for release. I think he was finally fatigued by his earthly fatigues.
To be found sitting upright, though. That's an image I don't think I'll ever shake. For the entire body to keep itself propped up appropriately, only to be found like that hours, or even a day or two, later is...it's strange, even by my standards. It's something I can't stop playing in my head because it's so bizarre that it feels like something I would've written in one of my own stories. And yet...not fiction.
Did he know this was coming? Could he feel death standing in the same room as him in that moment? Was it something that palpable, that completely measurable, or was it as sudden as being blinded by lights or becoming light-headed and then never having your vision return to normal? I imagine this is something you don't know until the moment it happens. It's not quantifiable or able to really be put into words when it comes.
However it came, I hope it was quick.
Two things happen when you dig through the remnants of a loved one's life - you either get confirmation that they were exactly who you thought they were or you get a near total stranger, a new person to explore and ruminate on, to ask questions about and never get answers to. Because death always brings more questions than it does answers, but I feel like the man who passed is exactly the man we knew. He was, in no particular order: imperfect, loving in his own weird ways, a lover of spirited conversation, and prone to elevated flights of fancy with plenty of evidence showing he wanted to take life by the horns, tame it, and make it his own...even when life had other plans for him.
I think many of us have a natural inclination to unnecessarily mythologize our loved ones in ways that are sometimes not all the way true. We've seen their inherent flaws, we've seen their mistakes. Hell, we may have actively lived through their mistakes. But we KNOW them, we know how they act in certain moments. We know the phrases they'll speak in others. We know that if A happens, and B follows, then C is sure to come up behind that because we've seen the pattern a hundred times before. We know what to expect and we adapt to the reaction. We know these people as surely as we know ourselves because we have spent the requisite time in their vicinity.
Welcome to the home that is "family."
And no one gets out of this mess without holding back a few secrets, without creating a few white lies along the way, without hiding a thing or two here and there. Sometimes that's just part of the deal. I think we're all allowed a few things we keep back from our loved ones, I don't think that's wrong. I don't think completely glossing over the truth is a great alternative, either, though. You might feel a certain way, but until you vocalize it, you've left it unanswered and unexamined. You've left all the power in the wrong emotion's hands and you've allowed it to cloud your judgment.
I've been trying to find more pockets of mental silence the last few months, particularly the last two as they've been the most difficult for me to navigate for a whole host of reasons not worth posting publicly. And then this came and I've been in Phoenix for nearly a week now and the silence has been even harder to find as I dig through the contents of his desk and his briefcase and his closet. It's been hard to find while trying to avoid the well-intentioned condolences and apologies and the offers of help in any way, all of which have come from people who meant every single syllable like it was the last true thing they'd ever speak. The important silence remains elusive for now, but the time for it will come soon enough.
I've become an anthropologist of my father's life in paperwork; I am now an expert in his insurance papers, his medical records, his phone bills. I know the (mercifully) few accounts that need to be closed, but not before we find out if any of these account holders happen to have a copy of his will on record. Is there a deposit box somewhere out there with his name attached to it? If so, is there a will inside it? Doubtful.
It almost doesn't matter at this point. I'm 99% done with his paperwork. All that remains are the phone calls to possible account holders to let them know that he'll no longer be waging war on the day, that he will no longer be making the required payments or contacting them about altering his accounts. He will no longer be found out on the patio of his home in Phoenix, watching the day's political fallout happen in real time as he opens his pack of cigarettes and takes another long pull from his vodka and Diet Coke.
I've been here 6 days and...honestly? I still don't know what I know. I don't imagine I'll get a real chance to process any of this experience until the end of December when my work office closes for two weeks and I have nothing but time to throw weak punches at. I will either have plenty to write about or I will go completely silent; I don't foresee a blend of both in my future. This is the first parent I've lost and I'm not entirely sure if I'm handling it well or not, which is a little terrifying.
I think the best I can do is continue trying to hustle the fuck out of the life I've been given, make it better for those around me whenever possible, and keep creating regardless of any measure of success. It's what I know, it's what I've been doing since an early age, and it's what my father always said he admired about the way I approached life.
He once said he never understood how I could just jump and manifest the things I wanted before I landed...
Truth be told, I don't know either, but I wish I would've had the ability to teach him.
