This is a transcription of a recording from 1 August 2017 titled “The Loss Of My Father In Words,” recently re-discovered in my files. It’s not very interesting, but I’m including it for completeness.
It’s curious that I have not recorded much regarding the loss of my father. It is certainly true that I have written many things, but the emotion is sometimes lacking when viewed on paper.
I have been affected by his death more than I though I would, despite his many hints and advanced warning. Much of it, I think, is due to one sister’s defiance of Patrick’s wishes. That has added a tremendous amount of stress in my life, and I am allowing it to affect me. Of course, those confrontations no doubt add to it, along with the fact that I was the only one from my family in Spain dealing with everything, on behalf of everyone else. Indeed, one sister was too busy whining and having quote-unquote “panic attacks”, yet she still was able to choose to go on vacation during the time of the funeral instead of honoring our father.
I have written elsewhere that the doctor doubled my blood pressure medicine dosage because of these issues. Even still, writing to family sometimes leaves my chest pounding. After receiving email, it can also take hours for my body to settle down. It’s not so bad that I feel the need to check myself into the emergency room, but it definitely requires me to somehow find a Zen place to go, not something that I am prone to doing. It’s times like these when I listen to my father’s voice and try to allow it calm me.
This morning at physical therapy, Cody said that I’ve got to let this go. He said he’s speaking to me as a friend, not as my physical therapist, and he can see the draining affect, the strain that it has put upon me. After Cody was done working on my neck, he asked Paul to apply some ultrasound for a few minutes on my neck. It’s embarrassing to admit, but while I was lying on the table, tears were dripping down my face. I wasn’t gushing, and I fought to hold them back, but I was not very successful.
In addition to all this family crap, the underlying hard truth is that I miss Patrick desperately. I had a nice email exchange with my former wife this afternoon. Perhaps some of the notes that I wrote in that sequence of messages would be worth adding to this recording’s transcription. She and my friends, including those invaluable friends in Spain, provide an anchor for me, help me to keep treading water, to avoid following in Patrick’s footsteps, to help me keep on fighting on behalf of my father’s wishes, to do what Patrick wanted me to do.
And if it all comes to naught? The grief will be the same, hammering like a pile driver. My friends will be there for me, as I have been for my family. And Patrick will live in memory, even as his ashes rest with Stephanie’s.
1 August 2017 4:45 PM
I’m the son of Patrick of Meadows.