I often wonder what his life would look like if he hadn't suffered the paralyzing stroke. Or what our relationship would look like if he tried a little harder before the stroke. Or what life in general would look like if he was a better husband & my parents never divorced. Death is a necessary little bastard. It's an unwanted, undesired part of life and therefore, unavoidable. When it happens, you are just left with the remnants of it, remnants that occasionally forces you to think of what could have been...
Occasions like today, his birthday.
Or the anniversary of his death.
Or on Father's Day.
The list goes on and on...
A friend said that my father would be proud of this woman that I have become, which made me wonder what my father thought of me. I would like to think that he was very proud of me. The fact that there were pictures of me throughout my various milestones in life framed in his house, made me feel like he was proud. The fact that he kept a photo album of all of the yearbook pictures, graduation announcements, Bobcats photos that I sent him, boyfriend photos, neatly in an organized fashion as if in a timeline, made me feel like he was probably always there even when distance made us distant. Letters were kept. Memories were kept. Is that proof of pride?
I think what is most painful of the memories of the past 10 years is his lack of a voice. It is very difficult to have a conversation with someone that struggles to speak back. When mid-argument with past boyfriends, I used to get so upset when I would text a question and not hear a response for hours! Imagine asking questions or simply trying to converse but not knowing that it would take years for a response. Imagine being unaware that you may never get a response.
Maybe that is a tad dramatic. But I would have liked to have not gotten off the phone with my father only to sit in tears because I did not know what he was trying to tell me. I would have preferred to have conversations that his nurse didn't have to interpret for me because the phone lines were so unclear and his voice wasn't strong enough to carry. It would have been lovely to ask my father open-ended questions, instead of the alternative because only "yes" and "no" were easiest for him to say and for me to understand. 7 years he struggled. 7 years he fought.
My unanswered thoughts are not pertinent to my existence. The unknown answers don't define me or change my relationship with him... they are just thoughts. Curious mind wanderings. That's what death does, that necessary little bastard. Such a nincompoop.
