11.27

Michelle Ecker
Nov 7 · 2 min read

Sometimes my dad’s life felt like a crescendo that got so loud it hurt your ears.

Suddenly the spot he’d inhabited on the couch for months would be left vacant. An empty fridge littered with rotting condiments would be replaced with button up shirts and big plates of pasta at beautiful restaurants.

We laughed. We walked for miles late at night, stopping to see anything that looked bright or sounded interesting. Interviews were scheduled and job offers were made. New leases were signed and the silence was over. His favorite song was finally on.

Louder and louder the crescendo grew as the energy on his dance floor overflowed with enthusiasm and opportunity. Things were going to change, life was going to be better now.

But then it started to get too loud. I’d yell over the music, gesturing with my hands that he needed to turn it down. I think he saw my mouth moving but could never quite make out the words. He continued to dance.

It never mattered how late into the night it was getting to be, he wasn’t ready to go home. Life was a party and he was happy to have finally shown up. He drank from liquor bottles and drove along the boardwalk in his brand new car. The music blared as he rolled down the windows, furiously singing along to anyone who would listen.

The day before he died he checked himself into the hospital and refilled his prescription medications. After months of thunderous noise and utter chaos, after a year of syncopated sleep and dizzying dance moves, even he was ready for quiet.

But how can you ask someone to choose between deafening silence and music so loud you have to scream to hear yourself over the noise?