The Ramblings of a "Mad Man"

It has been over a year now, and I have tried many different techniques to release my grief. I have ran from it by taking a job hours away and spending months overseas even ostracizing my wife and children. I have drank, sometimes heavily, but almost consistently until recently. I continued my horrible habit of smoking and drowned my self in my work with little regard for the people who I love around me.
See, i found it very difficult to cry in the beginning. I felt horribly guilty for my inability to cry after my father’s death. Questions ran through my head like, “maybe I didn’t really love him?” or “maybe something is wrong with me that I don’t feel sad.” I considered the idea that I may not have the ability to feel any pain at all and had horrible thoughts of the possibility of being sociopathic. It never really occurred to me what had happened that night until recently. That night was so traumatic for me that my emotions simply shut down cold. I wailed incessantly based on my father’s suffering, but hardly shed a tear after his death. In all honesty, I had wished death on him earlier that same night and even offered to help because the suffering seemed so intense. By the time he finally decided to allow death to take hold of him, I was thankful for it. I was thankful that my father was not suffering any more. I still feel pangs of guilt now, as I write these words, that I can’t seem to shake even though I know it was okay to feel that way given the circumstances.
I have never had the unfortune to have to deal with the death of a loved one, especially a member of the immediate family. I remember once growing up. I was walking through the fields outside the house we owned in Chemung. I must have been somewhere around 10. Our white German Shepherd, Apollo, was out running around with me as well. It was a beautiful spring day, the flowers were all new and the ground was still damp from a late spring. As I played in the field, I noticed that Apollo had stopped and had his nose buried in the grass. As I walked closer I could hear screams that were so horrible, i can’t really explain them in words today, but Apollo had found a nest of baby rabbits and was systematically eating them alive as I watched. I got there just in time to see him bite the last naked rabbit literally in half. My mind went blank and anger welled up in me of the likes I have rarely if ever felt since and I kicked Apollo with all of my might in the ribs. I chased him furiously knowing that I had no chance of catching him and thankfully so. When I knew the chase was over and noticed Apollo with his blood soaked nose, thought that I wanted to play chase, i bawled. I cried for the little animals that never got a chance to live even a part of life and I cried especially for the suffering the poor animals had had to endure when their lives had come to an end.
I realize now that some kids would have walked up to that scene and thought to themselves that it was interesting, some may have even enjoyed the show. Hell, I know people that may have enjoyed the show now as disturbing as that is to think, but it is true. Which leads me to my next deduction about my emotions and how I handle them. I believe that I may be so sensitive, that at times my emotions simply can not process the level of grief that I may be experiencing. I may not be capable of dealing with all of the mixed emotions, thoughts, etc. That accompany an extreme loss such as the loss of my father. So, as a result, my mind buries it deep. So deep, in fact, that it is virtually untouchable. It requires time and effort to mine it out of my subconscious so that I can deal with it one piece at a time and so here we are. I am writing to deal with some of my unspoken truths and hopefully someone is reading that may gain some small insight into their loss as a result of these words.
I had previously stated that I had offered to help my father die. I never hesitated on this point and would have helped my father in any way he requested, but in the end, i believe he waited for me to leave so that this particular action would never be. I am not sure if he didn’t want me to see him go or if he didn’t want me to carry the weight of having helped someone die with them. It could have been pure happenstance that not 5 minutes after I left, my father died without a word. I guess I will never know, which is hard for an engineer like myself to accept. After all, my job is to understand and make sense of hard problems, identify the solution, and solve the problem. Unfortunately, there is no real answer to these questions and it is this fact that makes me understand that need for people to believe in a higher being. A God or deity to take away this lack of understanding, this void of unknowable pain. It makes perfect sense, though I don’t subscribe myself.
One summer day, my father and I were walking back from the creek where we had been hiking or hunting for crayfish. I don’t really remember the source of the journey, but as we were walking up North street, we both say a Chipmunk half squashed by a car on the road. In obvious pain and suffering. At this age, eight or nine, I was not at all equipped for what I was seeing and definitely not equipped for what I was about to see. My father moved quickly for a large rock and quickly brought it down on the suffering animal with no hesitation. It was quick, and the Chipmunk was certainly dead on impact. I don’t remember the mess, but I am sure there was one. This may be one of those experiences that are buried in the back of my mind. However, I do remember asking my father why he had done that. He asked me simply, “would it have been better to leave the animal there to suffer and die slowly?”. After all, there was nothing we could do for this Chipmunk. It was certainly going to die and my father’s point was simple. Why let it suffer when you can do something to end the suffering. From this one single event in my life, I understood how difficult an act like that must be and the selflessness a person exhibits when they help an animal or, to get back to a point, a loved one to die rather than allow them to suffer for the selfish reason of not wanting to let go. It was this single moment in time when I was 8 years old or so, that would define how I felt on those last weeks with my father as we discussed the end and possible endings of his life.

Almost exactly one year ago, I sat in a hospital room in the early hours of the morning and asked my father if he would like me to help him take his life. He had been diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer not two months prior and was in the middle of the last dialogue of his life. Of course, he said, “We aren’t at that point yet”. But I knew we were. I didn’t drive two hours in the middle of the night because I thought it was a routine hospital stay. Deep down I knew that within 24 hours my father would be dead. This was more than hard for me, because as much as I loved my father, I had a hard time telling him so. Of course we exchanged hugs and “I love you”s during visits, but in all actuality, my father and I had a very difficult relationship.
My father was quiet, reserved, laid back, stubborn, and childish just like myself. However, it had not been until the year before his death that I had realized that these traits were not only typical for our family, but almost all of them. Families are difficult entities to understand and not a single one is the same as another, but they all do have one thing in common and those are mistakes. My family had made a decent amount. More than some, less than most, but the two people caught in those mistakes the majority of the time would be my father and I. My mother elusively dodged conflict with cat like reflexes and my brother was quiet and reserved and was able to avoid confrontation simply by nature. This led to a great deal of conflict between my father and I. This mostly started when my mother decided she was going to run off to California because she wasn’t happy in her marriage anymore. Two young children in elementary school be damned, she was going to be happy, regardless of who was involved. My mother to this day is one of the most selfish people I have ever met. Even in grief, she was able to make the entire episode about her and never consider the pain and suffering her children may be experiencing after the death of their father. I love my mother and always will, but like I stated previously, there have been mistakes made and though she evaded many of them, in many ways the source of those issues, were attached to her.
See, I blamed my father for my mother leaving and made his life difficult at a time when life was difficult by default. After all, he was a single parent raising two kids, alone, and without a modest income. He went through a massive depression that changed him for me and I never really forgave him for that. This led to me doing and saying things that I wish I could forgive myself for now, but it is too late.
I held my father’s hand as the nurse tried to hook up the IV blood pressure system since over time the blood pressure cuff had slowly stopped working. I could tell he was in pain and he winced at the sight of another needle almost as if it may be better to simply die and get it over with. I help his hand and it was awkward from years of unspoken words and unforgiven acts. He seemed more at peace with it than I, but it was all still there underneath the surface. I sat down beside him and told him that I love him and that I was sorry for all of the distress that I caused him. Of course, he summarily dismissed my apologies and simply brushed it off as a non-issue.
I got to the hospital at roughly 3 in the morning and my father was yellow. His skin was literally yellow and paper thin from the jaundice caused by an apparent complication with a bile duct in his liver being plugged or twisted the doctor stated. They said that there was a process that could be done using stint to reopen the bile duct and that a doctor would be with us shortly. My mother and Aunt who were there at the time immediately stated that they wanted to go get some sleep and would return. I believe it was a question, but their minds were made up and I readily accepted the time alone with my father. Hours went by and every 15 minutes or so a nurse would come in and check vitals. It seemed pretty routine to them that a dying man was sitting there in front of them, and I suppose it would be, but it didn’t make me like them. I felt as if they had no compassion and an anger burned every time they came in and looked at us both with pity, but little other regard. It was about an hour after my mother had left that the nurse came in and declared that the cuff didn’t seem to be working very well. She put the cuff on tighter and it seemed to alleviate the problem and off she went about her duties. Not a half hour later the same nurse came in and pronounced the same thing again. Again, she tightened it up and off she went. This happened on numerous occasions. I want to say this happened half a dozen times before the nurse shift change.
The new nurse came in due to the same issue and immediately freaked. She declared that my father had no discernible pulse and that a doctor needed to be called immediately. She left in a hurry and gentleman came in who was quite pleasant and was able to find my father’s pulse. From that point on the nurse came in constantly for vitals and it was officially declared that the cuff on the BP monitor must be broken. I watched all of this as an engineer, and had no idea what i was witnessing. i was sitting there watching my father slowly fade away.
Morning came and at roughly 8 in the morning the nurses determined it was time to move my father to a room and out of the ER. We had been there for 6 plus hours after-all, so they all gathered around to get my father onto a mobile bed. My father didn’t show any signs of pain during the procedure, but while they went to get his paper work he looked up at me with shear panic in his eyes and told me to find him pain medication. I have no idea, and never really will know, whether this was comment based on the question that I had posed to him earlier that morning, but it was clear that he was in massive pain. I ran to the nurse and asked for pain meds, but she dismissed me and said we could deal with that when we got to the new room. I objected, but that was not enough to assuage her conviction. The only thing I could do at that point was try to get him upstairs as quickly as possible so that pain meds would come.
It seemed pretty fast from that point. The elevator, the casual discussions between nurses who just started working, the hall way that smelled of death and dying. We made it to the room and my father was writhing in pain at this point. This is the first time that I have ever seen my father show any signs of outward discomfort that couldn’t be dealt with mentally. He had used focused breathing and was good at relaxing to the point that he never complained about pain and would politely ask the nurse for more pain meds when required. At this point, no questions needed to be posed to the nurses. In fact, it was very obvious that he needed the medication which I had continuously asked them to give him. The nurse ran out to get the pain medication as the first nurse upstairs found that the BP cuff upstairs didn’t work either and she couldn’t find a pulse.
My mother and aunt showed up right about this point as panic ensued. There were people running everywhere. Finally, someone was able to find a pulse and all was well. the nurse with magical syringe entered the room and slipped it into my father’s IV and you could see the pain disappear amazingly fast. In fact shortly he was able to sit up a bit. He had been asking for water and all he had gotten for hours was ice chips. He was able to sit up and sip some water. My mother and aunt said that I could go to their place an sleep and reluctantly I agreed. I asked my father if he was OK and he stated that he was. i could tell he was lying, but I told him that I loved him and that I would be back shortly. As I walked down the hallways through the hospital, the pent up tears began to roll as I released my sadness for the pain I witnessed my father endure. I wanted it so badly to end for him, yet I wanted so badly for him to stay so we could continue to evolve our relationship. As I burst out the ER doors, the tears turned to cries and my whole body convulsed as if vomiting up the sadness in large volumes. I could hardly get into my truck and drive, but I managed to work my way out of the parking lot when my cell phone rang.
It was a nurse and she said I needed to get back quickly. I asked why, already knowing the answer, and she paused as if talking to a colleague about how to answer this question before stating that I just needed to get back there immediately. I was in shock. The crying was over and I turned around quickly and made my way back to the parking lot where I had been only seconds before. I ran up the same hallways that I had just traversed as a broken son of a dying father and moved towards the room where many people were gathered around looking shocked. Some legitimately sad, others, probably having seen this scene so many times looking apathetic, but concerned for other reasons. They immediately pushed me into the room as they told me my father had died. The tears were gone. I knew it was over. I saw my father lying on the table where he made his final gasp as if contorted with pain. His mouth hung open where his final breath had left him. There was nothing left there and I knew it. I watched my mother make a spectacle by climbing into bed with his dead body and proclaiming to me, “death is a beautiful thing”. I instantly wanted to puke, but resigned myself to bury my face in a nurse who offered her bosom to me with sincere concern. I cried a bit more, but the reality kicked in and there were things to do. I had to tell my brother which still brings tears to my eyes now as a write. I had to tell him that his father was dead too.

Welcome to my new blog. I will update the site periodically with anything I can find that may help others find some peace with their anxiety disorder.

Take care,
OE