Isolation
by Jeff Glovsky
I failed my father in every way.
In his last days, slumped in his chair/bed, then toilet, neglected by his grandson, my nephew, who lived upstairs, locked away in his own foul-smelling mess, which he rarely ventured out of but to drive himself to work or nuke frozen pizza…
I killed my father!
Not knowing how bad things actually were; not wanting to see, be made fully aware…
Unable to be there and help my poor father, to meet his imploring human needs - for companionship… communication… then dressing, or finding his watch, or teeth.
Then, an amazingly too short time later, cleaning his uneaten food, and his mess.
I didn’t know how bad things were!
I wasn’t prepared to admit his defeat. And in this way, I failed him.
I killed my father! Willfully blind, not physically present… For all of Dad’s hopes, dreams, fears and smiles to end in a chair/bed, then toilet, abandoned…
I’ll never be able to forgive or accept.
* * *
It was twenty-five years ’til I heard her laugh. Really laugh, in an actually tickled way. Irrepressible joy sounds, like a child’s… Like a toddler’s response to something phunny.
I’d told her I wanted a moment of prayer, at least silence. A requiem. Song for my father.
“I prayed already,” she actually said. Like a contest… Like I’d missed something, or been remiss, on the one-year-since-the-day-he-died.
I prayed anyway. Ignoring her laughter. Longing to cry and reverse our mistake.
In the life-giving sun under vitamin sky, in the heat of this winter in time of cholera, I long to be back in the petri dish… New York raining, no snow anymore in winter, cold and flu still, now the epicenter…
I’d rather be there, anywhere, than here. In the house that we no longer “share”, the second “home” that never was… In the loneliness of too few rooms to escape the bitter silences, the mind-cracked, media-driven terrors and bursts of hysterical children’s laughter.
Desperate to escape from the two of us, no longer “one” now, by any equation.
* * *
The only thing worse than dying alone is death when you’re alone, together.
My dad, at the end, at least, was free. My mom passed before him. Their marriage, specifically union, relationship, died first, many years before… leaving both of them alone, together.
At least they were able to leave the house, though. Escape… so intrinsically vital and needed! Like blowing off steam in an outburst or dream, or sex at an apex of stress or frustration… The floodgates could open!
My parents, holed up in their terrible twosome, could tumble out for an hour or two — or evening, or days — spent apart from each other. This was vital: To be alone, by oneself.
… I never argue with myself. I don’t insult myself, call myself names, avoid myself, or accuse myself of trying to kill you!
I don’t yell that I’ve “destroyed” my life.
I want myself to be around, don’t selfishly need or use myself. And despite whatever faults I have, I hold myself in high esteem… Respect, even.
In the end, I might even love myself.
I am better alone in an empty house than with a bitter stranger, alone together.
So were you, Dad.
You deserved so much more.
