When tragedy struck my family, and really struck me for the first time in my life, I looked to tradition to guide me. The Catholic Church has historically encouraged a mourning period of about six months for the loss of a parent. So, I told myself I’d mourn and hurt for six months, then steel myself emotionally and put the past in the past.
Which brings us to today. Six months went by shockingly fast. I cried harder than I had in a while today, looking through some photos of my dad and me, shortly before his death.
I thought I would do a better job of coming to terms with things. But there are still moments where I forget he is dead. I still don’t know what he died from—he was fine one day and gone the next, and the doctors still can’t agree on what happened (they’re even still ordering tests.) His affairs aren’t wrapped up, though we’ve made considerable progress. I don’t know what my widowed mother’s future looks like. I still resent anyone older than me with both living parents. I still resent everyone who lives to enjoy their retirement.
I resent the fact that he lived more years without me than with me. I resent that my daughter won’t remember him, and my future children will never know him.
I resent doctors and medicine and Steven Pinkeresque arguments about how much life and technology are improving. I loathe health and longevity advice—how can I take that shit seriously after watching a lifetime runner die of a cardiac mystery event in his early sixties. The last time I saw my dad we ran a five mile race together.
Oh, and this guy (I discovered…) highlighted parts of his test results and took notes in the margins when he reviewed with his doctor. So I resent the implication that being an active participant in your healthcare does anything to deter or delay the ultimate end.
I’m 30. If I live as long as my dad, I’ll live another 34 years. If I live as long as my grandpa, 38 years. Great grandpa, 12 years. Anything and everything I want to do I need to do with a sense of urgency. I resent the time that others have, or feel they have, to enjoy and grow and waste before gracefully aging into the next phase of their lives.
Where does that leave me? My career feels like a game. I still take my profession seriously—I am after all a professional—but “saving for retirement” is a joke. I don’t much care about making more money because I have enough and my dad was the only person I felt it was both fun and appropriate to brag to.
My kids are real and my marriage is real, so I know what I need to do and who I need to be in the years ahead.
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When tragedy struck my family, and really struck me for the first time in my life, I looked to tradition to guide me. The Catholic Church has historically encouraged a mourning period of about six months for the loss of a parent. So, I told myself I’d mourn and hurt for six months, then steel myself emotionally and put the past in the past.
Which brings us to today. Six months went by shockingly fast. I cried harder than I had in a while today, looking through some photos of my dad and me, shortly before his death.
I thought I would do a better job of coming to terms with things. But there are still moments where I forget he is dead. I still don’t know what he died from—he was fine one day and gone the next, and the doctors still can’t agree on what happened (they’re even still ordering tests.) His affairs aren’t wrapped up, though we’ve made considerable progress. I don’t know what my widowed mother’s future looks like. I still resent anyone older than me with both living parents. I still resent everyone who lives to enjoy their retirement.
I resent the fact that he lived more years without me than with me. I resent that my daughter won’t remember him, and my future children will never know him.
I resent doctors and medicine and Steven Pinkeresque arguments about how much life and technology are improving. I loathe health and longevity advice—how can I take that shit seriously after watching a lifetime runner die of a cardiac mystery event in his early sixties. The last time I saw my dad we ran a five mile race together.
Oh, and this guy (I discovered…) highlighted parts of his test results and took notes in the margins when he reviewed with his doctor. So I resent the implication that being an active participant in your healthcare does anything to deter or delay the ultimate end.
I’m 30. If I live as long as my dad, I’ll live another 34 years. If I live as long as my grandpa, 38 years. Great grandpa, 12 years. Anything and everything I want to do I need to do with a sense of urgency. I resent the time that others have, or feel they have, to enjoy and grow and waste before gracefully aging into the next phase of their lives.
Where does that leave me? My career feels like a game. I still take my profession seriously—I am after all a professional—but “saving for retirement” is a joke. I don’t much care about making more money because I have enough and my dad was the only person I felt it was both fun and appropriate to brag to.
My kids are real and my marriage is real, so I know what I need to do and who I need to be in the years ahead.
But shit, it’s a bitter bitter pill to swallow.
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