My father died yesterday. His house is eerily quiet now. Dead quiet. The
only noises heard are the unrelenting slow staccato of a distant wall clock,
the occasional passing car and, off in the distance, the horn of a commuter
train.
Grief kept me up last night. When he was
here, there were also many fitful sleepless nights. He had nocturia, the waking up to go to the bathroom, which
was often followed by the wafting of cigarette smoke drifting underneath a closed
bedroom door. The smell and noises
would awaken me. I would deny it at first, then it would anger me, sadden me,
worry me then gradual sleepy acceptance.
I don’t think Elizabeth Kubler -Ross anticipated that her stages could last of all
of three minutes at 2 am and involve these circumstances. Somehow I would drift back to sleep.
I have slept here alone before but it’s
different now. There will be none of my father’s noises anymore. No clanging of the
walker he used in his later years. No hope of him returning to his bulky but squeaky favorite kitchen
chair. No more TV at the highest volume. No more war movies. No more Bishop Fulton Sheen. But most of all, no expectation of him yelling at me and I yelling back. Our arguments were almost a sport. The
typical fight would last only about three minutes too. Words would explode.
Expletives would fly in my adult years and then fist pounding on the table
usually accompanied by a loud “Jesus Christ”. He would say,
“If I didn’t yell it would mean I didn’t love you.” Boy was I showered with love growing up. We would get out our grievances, all of
them, deny they ever existed in the first place then accept whatever small
compromise we could muster.
“Jesus
Christ”, I pound now in my grief, Ms. Kubler
-Ross was a genius.
There will be no more yelling now. No more smoking either. (Thank you Jesus!) No more loud fist pounding. Just the staccato of that ticking
clock, the passing car and the train. But the memory of the
yelling, fist pounding and many “Jesus Christs" would never fade. Nor will the love.
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