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November 27, 2010 The end to a very long and painful journey... Arthur David VanceJanuary 31, 1938 - October 28, 2010 I love my dad. I always will. But he's gone. And I'll never see his face again. I am comforted by the fact that he is no longer in the condition he was in, inside the "assisted living facility". His degeneration was massive, extreme, and rapid. He got so sick, so fast. But he never wanted to labor away in an institution like his own father did for eight, grueling years. And for that simple fact I am comforted. However, he struggled for days, with no liquids and no food, stronger than anyone thought he could be, grasping to what little life he had left. My poor father. No one should die like that, trapped in a body that had turned against him, shackled to a mind that no longer allowed him to communicate and that plagued him with images both imagined and real. Yet he never lost the ability to recognize his family, he never forgot who we were. I think that is the worst part; the part that kept me up at night, dad was still in there, fighting for dominion over his own heart and mind, struggling to take back the control he had so painfully lost. I hated that place, where we put him. I hated seeing my father deteriorate like that, and watching everyone else (all those helpless old people) deteriorate along with him. It was a place filled with sadness and loss and sickness. Good people kept it running and did what they could to respect the dignity of strangers, but at the end of the day (and this is my own weakness) I cringed at the thought of visiting dad. And for my own sake, I'm glad he's no longer there (again, probably my weakness). I know he would never have wanted to live like that. My dad and I were close, but never that close. I have always felt closer to my mother, admittedly once a "mama's boy" always a "mama's boy", but I think that pop and I were one of two things, either completely different, or completely the same. I remember being a stupid teenager and despising the very sight of him. Though for my part I was a stubborn child, not reckless, but implacable; probably not the easiest boy to rear. And then, there was the whole loss of faith. In a Roman Catholic, family, going your own way, attempting to make your own mark at the ripe age of fifteen, stepping away and denouncing the religion that makes up your family unit, ain't the most facile path one might choose. And as I grew into manhood, I always resented the fact that dad never accepted me as an adult, as I felt like my mother did. (Or maybe he did, and I just didn't give him the credit he deserved, for in some respects I still act like a child, even to the point of reveling in childish things.) Regardless, there were two constants in my life, and these came directly from both my parents; I felt their undying love, and their never-ending support. And in a world that can be at times tiresome and difficult and hurtful, even horrific, what more could a child, and a man, ask for? My dad was strong, albeit at times I thought him weak, stronger than I could ever be. He never gave up on me. Not once. He never told me I could not do what it was that I wanted to do, that thing that somehow, someway, I knew I had to do, whether it be writing or drawing or music. I was never chided for being a dreamer, for choosing a different path. I was never mocked for living in my mind, and indeed, living for imagination. And I will always -- always cherish that, cherish the fact that my dad was one of the most amazing men I have ever had the pleasure to encounter. He made my life rich, he made my life a joy, and I am a better man for knowing him. I have two goals now. One- support my mother in all regards. Two (and this one's more difficult)- I want to remember my father the way he was before he got sick, which for me, has been very difficult. At the memorial, Nici had found a picture of dad smiling the way he used to smile, not the forced grins we used to implore him to give, but a real sincere smile. And that is it, that's how I want to see him in my mind's eye. I recall an interview I saw with Patrick Stewart who was talking about how he felt when his father died. I was too young and ignorant to understand his statement, but it stuck with me all these years, and now I know. Now I understand. He said in the interview, "who will take care of me now?" I am forty-one years old, and that hits me to my core. I am very independent; I am very strong-willed and quite stubborn. But I can't help thinking, "who will take care of me". I think anyone who loses a parent that has been such an integral part of his or her life for so long could think nothing less, regardless of age. My dad was a great man. He left an indelible mark in me, and within every person, he touched. I can only hope that I will live up to his example. If I am half the man my dad was, I will, indeed, be the best that I can be. [Add Comment] 0 Comments |
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