Questions

Why is my father so tired? Is his liver failing, or is it his refusal to use the oxygen? Is it the depression that he denies experiencing but which vests itself so clearly in his affect and actions (or lack of actions)?

Why do I cry so infrequently and so briefly?

Why can't dad come to terms with his impending death?

Why am I such a coward? Why can't I discuss death and dying with him? Why do I suspect that he'd like me to take the first step?

And why, in the name of all that's good and right, is my mother choosing now to act out in such a despicable and childish manner such that it pales in comparison to anything she's ever done in the past?

How on earth, at a time like this, can I possibly solve my problems with mom and simply forbid her to invade my personal space/business/life?

Why am I playing Rachmaninoff on the stereo instead of Oscar Peterson?

Pardon the pun, but why do I sound like a broken record?

Answers

Dad's going to die and it may be selfish but I honestly sometimes wish he'd get it over with.

The "Anger" stage of grief is in full swing right now. I nearly got myself arrested the other day for verbally assaulting a customer who was refusing to pay for what he ordered. (Luckily, the customer was so ignorant he didn't realize that my tirade qualified as an assault under the laws of the state I live in.) And I've engaged in the childish and dangerous behavior called "road rage." Oooh, this business of confessing gives me the warm fuzzies. I've hurled racial slurs at several people under my breath (a truly cowardly thing to do, if you ask me).

I wish it were me. I've come to terms with my mortality (heart disease and several near-death experiences can do that to a person). Call me suicidal, but I'd trade places with him in an instant would it were possible. Worse, I wish it were my mother. I'm certain that the stress of forty-nine years of life with her gave him colon cancer in the first place and will end up killing him. Couldn't she just go away and leave him alone?

My mother put the "fun" in "dysfunction." I guess her "excuse" is that she's an ACOA (Adult Child of an Alcoholic). Ecch, I can't believe that I'm being so fucking Politically Correct. I guess the thing that frustrates me so much about my mother is that she's really, really screwed up but I can't just point a finger and say "oh, she's {choose one: a) an alcoholic, b) a drug addict, c) a criminal}. If she were one of those, we could all of us get together hunky-dory and have ourselves an intervention, send her off somewhere and "detach with love." But no, no, no. She's just weird and fucked up. And boy it's hard for me to talk about it 'cause I'm weird and some of my behaviors are fucked up but at least I realize it. And then of course there's the part of me that's missing having had a mother who cared a whit about me. Boy, do I envy the folks I know whose mothers love them unconditionally. Boy do I envy the folks I know who talk to their mothers every day (not because they feel obliged to, but because their mothers are people they like). Is it a sin to "covet thy neighbor's mother?"

The Happy Ending

I've met some of the finest people I've ever met in my life in the past months.

Wealth is no longer measured in dollars by me, but by the number of good friends I have - and if friends were gold my brother would be the mother lode.

"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." = True.

"Live each day as if it were your last." = Great advice.

Joy can be found in most places, all one need do is look hard enough.

Lessons can be found everywhere. Lessons beat despair hands-down.

Life goes on and when I think of the alternative, I guess life's pretty good; no, make that very good, after all.