Green Eyes
That's what I remember most from that night. How green his eyes looked and how green mine became from crying so hard.
That's actually something Jason pointed out to me. When I'm really upset, my eyes look green.
I always wanted the same color of eyes as Dad, they were so pretty.
He couldn't talk, but he conveyed so many messages with his eyes. He'd watch us, he'd cry, he'd beg us to let him go.
So, I feel guilt. Guilt that I didn't go back the night before. Guilt that I didn't go ahead and ask the Doctor to find the bleed. Guilt that I pushed everyone and got bitchy to take him off the respirator. Guilt that I didn't keep him on, just in case they could stabilize him and test and get a new liver.
I know we did the right thing. It's obvious he wanted to die. He drank himself into oblivion.
Money does not buy happiness. Genius MDs don't make you happy. The only place that happiness truly sleeps is in love.
Dad didn't know how to love. His parents weren't all that good at showing their feelings. His mother more than his father. I loved my Grandaddy so much. A man of music, bald spots, sloppy kisses and quiet love. Dad would say (much later) that Grandaddy showed more affection to the neighborhood kids than to him. Grandmother was just a socialite bitch. But I loved her too.
I don't sleep all that well anymore. I see his eyes begging for death. I see him bleeding out and see all that blood. I can smell the shit, piss and blood oozing through the tubes. I hear the breaths that slowed to 30 minutes apart, I hear the monitor beeping with his strong heart. I understand that each organ is shutting down because they are all dependant on the liver. I feel the void where he once was.
I'm sitting in my father's chair. I can see the paintings that his beloved Aunt Ooo did (he couldn't say Elizabeth). Shit, I got as much of his furniture as I could (even though that bitch made me pay for the family heirlooms... that's a whole other shit storm). But I can't feel him. Not like I could when he was alive.
We didn't talk a ton. We're both sucky at mailing things. He didn't visit a lot, and I didn't fly down there much. But we'd mended our fences. And I knew that I could call him anytime and he'd be there. He knew the same of me.
When he was drunk he'd call and cry. When his electrolytes rose he would call and be confused. When I had any medical questions, I could call for answers. When Joe (my Grandpa) was really sick and I was supposed to go on a family vacation with Jason's side, Dad was the one who cleared my mind and made me realize that my place is always with my children. And that my decisions were mine, no one should be pushing me to do all these other things.
I honestly didn't think that his death would change my life so much (I've most likely said this before). But there is a huge space in my heart.
I've had to parent both of my parents. But in those moments that he was all together, he was a great Dad. I wish that he could have been after his marriage with Mom ended. But I have some memories of before. And some wonderful ones from after our rift.
Carol and I both took a bunch of pictures from the house. The dirty whore gave us the rest (without charging!). He clumped each kid's pictures together. He had them of each of us.
There was a stack of me. In it was one that I didn't remember. He'd caught me from behind and there is whipped cream (from a pie fight) all over us. And we're laughing. I think that I remember that day (and I don't remember a lot from those days). I framed it, it's on my desk.
My house is starting to look like a shrine. But he had a lot of really nice things. And I want his tobacco, that he'd saved since he stopped smoking his pipes years and years ago, to be out so I can smell it. I want the pictures out. His uniforms, his medals, the half of ashes that I have.
Everyone wants me to go see Joe. He's not doing well. And I don't want to. The strongest memory of Grandmother is a horrible fight we got into about Dad not seeing us. Of Grandaddy, is him in a coma and looking so frail. Of Granny, is of her dead in a hospital bed and the damn respirator making her have a breath. Of my Dad it's the suffering in his green eyes.
Right now, my strongest memory of Joe is when we went to see him right before Carol and I flew to Texas that first time when we found out about Dad's drinking. Dad was in the hospital, and I was constantly on the phone getting information, talking to everyone. Joe was in his chair and I was behind him. The sweet blind man held my hand and told me he wished he could make it all go away. I cried on his bald head. I hadn't felt that close to him in so long. I don't want to ruin that memory. I need it.
I know that's selfish. That he wants to feel me near. My schedule is crazy 'til after school starts. Maybe by then I'll have healed a bit. At least getting some real sleep.
So back to the eyes. I cried in the hospital bathroom a lot. My eyes were green. From shit-brittle-brown to green. I cry a lot, and they haven't hit that particular shade again.
It seemed that most of the scene in front of me was grey, except his eyes. They were startling tragic and green.
That's actually something Jason pointed out to me. When I'm really upset, my eyes look green.
I always wanted the same color of eyes as Dad, they were so pretty.
He couldn't talk, but he conveyed so many messages with his eyes. He'd watch us, he'd cry, he'd beg us to let him go.
So, I feel guilt. Guilt that I didn't go back the night before. Guilt that I didn't go ahead and ask the Doctor to find the bleed. Guilt that I pushed everyone and got bitchy to take him off the respirator. Guilt that I didn't keep him on, just in case they could stabilize him and test and get a new liver.
I know we did the right thing. It's obvious he wanted to die. He drank himself into oblivion.
Money does not buy happiness. Genius MDs don't make you happy. The only place that happiness truly sleeps is in love.
Dad didn't know how to love. His parents weren't all that good at showing their feelings. His mother more than his father. I loved my Grandaddy so much. A man of music, bald spots, sloppy kisses and quiet love. Dad would say (much later) that Grandaddy showed more affection to the neighborhood kids than to him. Grandmother was just a socialite bitch. But I loved her too.
I don't sleep all that well anymore. I see his eyes begging for death. I see him bleeding out and see all that blood. I can smell the shit, piss and blood oozing through the tubes. I hear the breaths that slowed to 30 minutes apart, I hear the monitor beeping with his strong heart. I understand that each organ is shutting down because they are all dependant on the liver. I feel the void where he once was.
I'm sitting in my father's chair. I can see the paintings that his beloved Aunt Ooo did (he couldn't say Elizabeth). Shit, I got as much of his furniture as I could (even though that bitch made me pay for the family heirlooms... that's a whole other shit storm). But I can't feel him. Not like I could when he was alive.
We didn't talk a ton. We're both sucky at mailing things. He didn't visit a lot, and I didn't fly down there much. But we'd mended our fences. And I knew that I could call him anytime and he'd be there. He knew the same of me.
When he was drunk he'd call and cry. When his electrolytes rose he would call and be confused. When I had any medical questions, I could call for answers. When Joe (my Grandpa) was really sick and I was supposed to go on a family vacation with Jason's side, Dad was the one who cleared my mind and made me realize that my place is always with my children. And that my decisions were mine, no one should be pushing me to do all these other things.
I honestly didn't think that his death would change my life so much (I've most likely said this before). But there is a huge space in my heart.
I've had to parent both of my parents. But in those moments that he was all together, he was a great Dad. I wish that he could have been after his marriage with Mom ended. But I have some memories of before. And some wonderful ones from after our rift.
Carol and I both took a bunch of pictures from the house. The dirty whore gave us the rest (without charging!). He clumped each kid's pictures together. He had them of each of us.
There was a stack of me. In it was one that I didn't remember. He'd caught me from behind and there is whipped cream (from a pie fight) all over us. And we're laughing. I think that I remember that day (and I don't remember a lot from those days). I framed it, it's on my desk.
My house is starting to look like a shrine. But he had a lot of really nice things. And I want his tobacco, that he'd saved since he stopped smoking his pipes years and years ago, to be out so I can smell it. I want the pictures out. His uniforms, his medals, the half of ashes that I have.
Everyone wants me to go see Joe. He's not doing well. And I don't want to. The strongest memory of Grandmother is a horrible fight we got into about Dad not seeing us. Of Grandaddy, is him in a coma and looking so frail. Of Granny, is of her dead in a hospital bed and the damn respirator making her have a breath. Of my Dad it's the suffering in his green eyes.
Right now, my strongest memory of Joe is when we went to see him right before Carol and I flew to Texas that first time when we found out about Dad's drinking. Dad was in the hospital, and I was constantly on the phone getting information, talking to everyone. Joe was in his chair and I was behind him. The sweet blind man held my hand and told me he wished he could make it all go away. I cried on his bald head. I hadn't felt that close to him in so long. I don't want to ruin that memory. I need it.
I know that's selfish. That he wants to feel me near. My schedule is crazy 'til after school starts. Maybe by then I'll have healed a bit. At least getting some real sleep.
So back to the eyes. I cried in the hospital bathroom a lot. My eyes were green. From shit-brittle-brown to green. I cry a lot, and they haven't hit that particular shade again.
It seemed that most of the scene in front of me was grey, except his eyes. They were startling tragic and green.