I started to write the whole freaking story about my father in hospice, the abuse I dealt with in reference to it, his terminal agitation and my doubts that he should’ve been in there when he first went in.
I was going to talk about how we ‘celebrated’ Easter that year (2013) at the hospice, while my father lay unconscious in the hospice bed. (I want to throw up just thinking about that right now.)
As I wrote though, I could feel all the anger coming up. My body tighten up all over, my head hurts and I feel a rage that I cannot direct anywhere. So although anger can be good, I question how productive it is when it’s something from the past and I cannot stand up to what is making me angry, because it’s just a phantom at this point.
Of course I should be angry. But now I feel I’d be better off finding ways to make sure I’m never treated that way again, by anyone. Or at least learn to have the ability to stand up for myself when someone attempts it. It is better that I allow my body to digest my food that I’ve just eaten, because the anger and stress I feel as I relive these events gives me reflux right.
Besides, I have written about this in the past right here on this blog, and all I seem to be accomplishing is getting myself agitated. I will probably have terminal agitation myself at the time of my death if I don’t figure out a way to come to terms with everything. Mostly accept that what happened, happened. Forgive myself for not standing up for myself and be okay with never forgiving them. No matter what the rhetoric is.
They don’t deserve my forgiveness. They aren’t sorry, so it’s not okay. Well, even if they were sorry, it would not be okay.
I was feeling ashamed about suspecting that my father was being manipulative by going into hospice when he did, given that he was fully conscious and at times seemed lucid. Everyone else in a bed in that place, laid silent and sleeping.
Knowing and understanding what I know now, seeing his terminal agitation, I no longer believe it was manipulation on his part.
But my suspicions didn’t exist in a vacuum and come out of nowhere. There were reasons behind them. I tend to be harder on myself than I am now on my father. Feeling brainwashed into believing that whatever he did was okay because he was old, he was dying, he is now dead.
Truth is, my parents, my family, psychologically abused me. They inflicted the type of abuse I now believe to be the hardest kind to heal from. I have been figuratively crippled by my past and that IS NOT OKAY. So if I suspected manipulation up to the end, then there must be good damn reason. It doesn’t make me an awful person. There are plenty of other things that I’ve said and done that could give me that label. Suspecting someone who manipulated his children into caring for him round the clock while he was dying, instead of hiring a nurse or home health aid, and allowing for us to visit on our own terms, isn’t so far fetched. Suspecting manipulation from a man who crossed boundaries throughout my childhood and adulthood, isn’t so ridiculous of an idea.
Today, April 1 (Fools Day of all days) is the anniversary of my father’s death. It really couldn’t get more ironic than that James.
6 years he’s gone. I hope he’s resting in peace because his family is not at peace. His family is no more.
Just to mention: I made it to the cemetery/grave site of my father’s family. I left his ashes there and the handwritten lyrics of the song, “Say Something” and a little “Pocket Smile” he’d given me years ago.
I also have a photo of the grave stone and the ashes that I’d like to post here too, but it’s on my phone and I don’t have an adapter cable to get it from phone to computer. I’ll have to ask B about that and see if he can help me with that.