Coping

How does a man cope with his father's death?

Just a few weeks ago I was in a hospital room, sitting down in a chair across from my father with my brother at my side.  Hunters as we were, we were talking about rifle scopes, retelling stories of great shots that we had told before.  That's when the topic turned to snipers.  My father, just having had either a stroke or what the doctor diagnosed as merely Bells Palsy, mentioned to me in his slurred voice that if I was interested in learning more about snipers, he had three books on the bottom shelf of his bookshelf in the basement.  I was leaving to head back to my family that very afternoon, having been given assurance from the doctor that Dad was well on the way to recovery.  I had considered making a stop at the house on the way out of town and picking up one of those books, but haste compelled me to gas up and head home so that I could have time to rest up that evening for another day of school the next morning.  Little did I know that my father would be on life support less than forty-eight hours later.

After the funeral, it was time to consider heading back to my life.  On the way out of the house, I excused myself and went downstairs.  It was Dad's final request of me, and I could not let him down.  I chose the first one of the three that I saw, Dear Mom: A Sniper's VietNam by J.T. Ward.  I took it home and opened it.  It was incredibly hard to get through the first line without crying.  It's not that the first line was a heartbreaker, but there was something there which caused me agonizing pain. Perhaps it was my link Dad's experience in boot camp, since I couldn't ask him questions about his time in the Army anymore.  Perhaps it was the fact that this was Dad's book and I was reading what he once had in his hands.  I have a picture of Dad in my mind, sitting on the couch in his spot night-after-night, reading his books.  To that end, he had over 500 books on war on his bookshelf from which to pick, and more boxed up on the floor.

I eventually made it through that first line and only put the book down when sleep or school forced me to.  Though I don't know J.T. Ward at all, I could feel myself living this man's military life and his war experiences, and somehow it kept Dad alive for me.  I finished it about thirty minutes ago.  The only problem was that whenever I had questions, Dad was just a phone call away.  So many questions went unanswered.

So now I am left feeling empty inside.  When I go back to Mom's house, I will replace Dear Mom with the second book Dad spoke of and see if there is something in it that can keep Dad's memory alive for me.  I try to end each blog post with some type of morale, platitude, or upbeat statement, but right now I still have the same hole in my heart that I had a few weeks ago when Dad passed.  I'm not sure it will ever be filled.  I'm just afraid of what won't happen when I finish all three books.