Usurp his oxygen mask and cursing, he looked like a soldier fighting an unknown enemy eyed in the dark. It was my father, and he was dying. Look to stifle love, death in the front room to the family at home is nothing like it does in the movies, is ugly and does not forgive. And 'unwatchable, but you can not turn off, press forward in a hurry, or cover with your hands until a light scene comes.
I saw my brother James - a practice ERDoctor - to sit down and brave the pain and the weight of my father's abusive rants. My mother would later say that no child should talk to his dead father, but my brother did. He was a hero that day, but helps to bear their scars, and James did not return home on West Lamar Street.
My father was more than 10 years away and now we have been irrevocably changed by his passing. We miss him, especially in this time of year when we gather, laugh and rememberdays gone by. While the young nieces and nephews enjoy the novelties of holiday cheer, we visit the past and the experiences that have shaped our time together as a family. The times that we knew that our love for each other was, despite the pain we put each other over the years really.
My father was not a perfect man. He hurt people - people he loved, who loved him in return. For years I struggled to understand how my interests and how they presented and brought to othernext to me in my life.
Was growing up, my relationship with my father tense and unstable. He was a critic, and undermined my confidence in myself. He was a man in search of talent, and has focused on error. I fought to prove my value to my life, to him, then me. At his death left a void. Now I'm going to find my consent?
For others in my family was different. My mother spent years catering to a man who could not give them what they wanted.My father, a successful neurosurgeon, was not emotionally available to love in a way that both the intimacy expressed in the heart and head built. I think she often felt isolated and alone in her 38 years of marriage.
To my brother James, the fight was always competitive academic and career related comparative. He decided early on not to be, that was my father, both his profession and chose emergency medicine for the freedom it offers. He isfather who is really his wife and children in particular. Often told me that he does not want, like our father, a father who was not simply to be there.
But for all the pain and suffering, all the disappointment and despair, I miss her.
I miss my father is blind intellect, his wit and humor, curiosity and a mind never at rest. I miss the click-clack of boots, Florsheim and rhythm on the floor of the hospital when you turn on me like a child. I miss the wayHe laughed when I imitate him, which I often did. I miss the rides we took on the rocky beaches of Oceanside, where every summer of my childhood, I would threaten to remember my transgressions and my membership in the military school. I miss the time I deliberately slowed down a fastball in the All-Star Parent / Child League little game, so you can achieve success. I miss his friendship, now that I'm old enough to become really be his friend.
For all the things I miss is a night that rises above the rest.Ask anyone in our family, what is the best night we ever had together, and it was agreed: dinner at Trattoria Dell'Arte, New York City. It 'was a special night, and my father was in rare form.
Trattoria dell'Arte was unlike any restaurant I've ever seen: a minimalist design, it was peachy orange walls, high ceilings and relaxing art-house lighting. But its most striking features were exactly that - work. Giant plaster casts of human ears, eyes, noses and lipsadorned the walls and made this trendy restaurant in Midtown seem a kind of culinary carnival. The fact that my father had made the reservation was a first, the fact that we had a VIP table at the center of the room is limited to bizarre.
For the most part silent in social occasions, my father seemed to be with another man. He lived, sociable, and even dizzying. He shared stories, told jokes and was making toast. It 'was the master of ceremonies, and we were his guests. He offered a generous pour of whichvisit us luck. A bottle for the best wines came and went, and without reserve, he ordered more - six-sided illuminated at our table did not matter. Dessert was no different. When our waiter asked what we have, my father was the answer: "We will have one each," and we did. Mousse au chocolat, éclairs, crème brûlée, sorbet - it was endless.
And so it was a memorable night, when my father, full of festive mood in the prime of his life,has given us all something special. To be with him, basking in his glory, and to know that this Christmas Eve, one in the heart of Manhattan, who had always wanted to have the magic man, he will.
I chose to remember the best. Knowing not only by my father, but all the people that I blessed in my life, which, as I carry the baggage of the past, I broke. The way to salvation is paved with people like us who struggle to do our best, often in spite of us. And 'where my fatherand I'm in silence hand in hand in the recognition and memory.
