The Flavors of Anger
As I settle into life after my father’s death, I realized I have become a connoisseur of the flavors of anger as they swirl like a bitter bad wine in my mouth and stomach.
There is anger at the universe (the Universe, god, God, Goddess, Allah, Shiva, Yahweh… whatever), for taking my father with such sudden determined ferocity, when a man that good did not deserve it. This anger is old and lingering, flat but persistent.
There is the anger at my father for not taking his “being tired” more seriously at the time. As if it really could have made any difference with AML. I know cases that were diagnosed and still resulted in fatality in 3–7 weeks. This anger is a bit stronger and sour, intermingled with a hint of sweet compassion for my dad.
There is the anger at others who say things like “just get over it”, and “people die all the time”. People trying to “fix” instead of just listening, witnessing. This is a particularly sharp tasting anger, bitter and acrid; fortunately fleeting because idiots don’t deserve my time or energy.
There is the anger at myself for not leaving the moment he went to the hospital. If I had left 3 hours earlier I might have had more than a few minutes of consciousness with him. He might have been able to communicate with me without that fucking breathing tube. More could have been said than the desperate look in his pleading eyes. This anger is particularly bitter and has a long after-taste.
There is the old old anger of my mother being taken so quickly too. How could they both have been taken so suddenly? Is it possible I loved them too much? Did I contribute to burnig out their candles too fast. Did I anger some spiteful spirit that sought vengeance on my dearest things? This anger makes me choke and spit up blood.
I hope that I can finish this particular bottle, but it seems to have an endless flow.
