I miss him. The wisdom that he carried that makes mine seem so small in comparison. How much he loved Christmas, so that now in his absence I tolerate it's existance. I -hate- that he didn't get to see his grandson graduate from high school, education was always important to him. I -hate- that he didn't get to see that same grandson get married, and the happiness his wife brings him.
I was at work when it happened. I got a call from my stepmother telling me dad was at the hospital. I am fairly sure I violated all sorts of speed laws getting to said hospital. Apparently there is this medicine that they can give you that prevents several of the nasty side effects of a stroke. If they can give it to you in time. Good news, they were able to administer the medicine in time. Bad news, dad was allergic to it.
A nurse came out and spoke with me. Told me that dad kept trying to scratch, the medicine was making him itchy, and that I needed to come back and find a way to convince him to stop or they would have to strap him down. Dad HATED hospitals and disliked doctors "It's called a medical practice, why should I let them practice on me?" he would say. So I knew if they strapped him down he'd lose it. SO I went back.
My father was the strongest man I knew. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. As I held his arms down, to see my dad writing, crying, begging me to stop the itching broke me. They were coming with medicine to make the itching stop, but we'd have to wait, and then wait for it to kick in. But to see him, laid up in the bed begging for it to stop like he was being tortured. Damn I fucking broke.
He got better, was in the hospital for a few days and able to be home for Christmas. It was the last Christmas I'd have with my dad. It was the last year I have a picture of me, him and my son together. I know it seems odd for a fifty-one year old man to seem this upset by not having his father around any more, but you have to understand something.
During my teens, into my early twenties, my relationship with my dad wasn't the best. Hell it wasn't until after my sone was born that we started really bonding. I'd spent thirty years of my life feeling as if my dad loved my step-brother more than he loved me. And I learned way too late that was not the case. So I had to work through that resentment, towards him, towards the step-brother, and also in small part my step-mother. So I had, what thireteen good years with dad?
Death doesn't take a holiday. It doesn't care. But nor is it evil.
I miss my dad.