Edward D. Fields: 11/23/1949 – 06/18/2008
My father died on June 18, 2008. That’s what the headstone says anyway. Deep down, I knew that I would somehow find out when he was dead, no matter how many years went by between contact. I suppose I didn’t expect it to be so soon, before he knew about my marriage or my MS. I guess I expected him to have grandchildren he may or may not have known about. Somehow I thought he would drift back into my life, discover all of the important stuff, and then drift out again before the end.
I’ve been thinking about Brian’s death over the past few weeks, (and his short life, for that matter.) The days surrounding his funeral were hell on earth, but I was surrounded by people experiencing that same version of hell. We held each other up; we held each other together. My father’s death leaves me feeling incredibly alone. I have an amazing support system, but there is not one person on this planet that can possibly understand this odd awful version of hell. When Brian died, at least I knew how to feel.
A few days after he died, I saw a license plate that read, ‘ITS2LATE” or something along those lines, something that broke me, made my body shake. There have been many moments like that one, so many random messages. I have thought about my father more in the last three weeks than in the last three years combined; I have thought about our good times more in the last three weeks than in the past fourteen years combined.
I am traveling to San Antonio next week. My two favorite Moms are driving with me and together we will pack up the pieces of my father’s life. I am dreading it, but I know that this is the beginning of the end of my uncomfortable relationship with my father. Maybe by fulfilling this so-called duty, I can find some sort of so-called peace with him and with myself. I can try anyway.
