A Death in the Family/My Life as a Vampire

My father died yesterday. At the risk of seeming profane, he was one tough SOB. He knew how to live. At dying he was not so good.
When I was a kid, my old man scared me. Later, as a teen, I reacted to the mere mention of him with instant tears and incredible rage. I never really knew him. I spent little time with him. In truth, I never really got a handle on our relationship. I never felt anger, just hurt.
One on one time with my father came at a premium. Family and friends found themselves welcome in his house always. But my father was no host. He might send you on the roof to slap some asphalt patch around the vents during a visit, or fall asleep in his chair, or go fishing all night. He never understood how to talk serious stuff. He could lecture, but talk back and forth, no. It wasn't his forte.
For a few years, we chatted on the phone. But it never amounted to much. I suspect slights, both real and imagined, came between us. But again, he was one tough guy.
I never knew a lot of what I found out this weekend. That my Grandfather and Grandmother Criscenti could be violent with my father never crossed my mind. But I did wonder why he carried such anger with him. The grandparents always treated me with love and care. The most violence my grandfather ever subjected me to was a switch of the flyswatter while sitting at the dinner table. But my father suffered a lot for his boyishness. He fought his way back and forth to school. He fought in high school no doubt. He fought as a man, and holding him back as an old man was a chore. I'm sure he never understood his anger. Maybe he never even realized it. This man worked as a tuna fisherman, a carpenter, and in a prison. Tough.
Yet, this weekend I found out he had taken a puppy from a litter all the way to UC Davis to repair a deformed paw. My cousin Dominic spent weeks with him while he died, taking care of him, and helping out Sandy, my father's wife. How could this be?
What kind of man was this that could engender so much fear, and so much love? Dominque, his youngest daughter, battled her own impending loss to comfort the old man. His children came to comfort him. His neices and nephews and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came. His brothers, and sisters-in-law came and watched him as he fought death. At first, I didn't understand the whole process.
I sat in his room, while he lay there, suffering and unable to speak, and I didn't know what to say. I avoided more than some comforting gestures. I didn't know how to send him off. I didn't know this man.
I spoke at night with Dominic and Dominque's husband about my lack of understanding. I tried to comfort other people, but felt no comfort myself. I was still hurt about my relationship with my father. I knew how wrong it seemed to feel this way, but nonetheless, I couldn't shake it. I'd been understanding my grief about what had happened to me as a child, but had never come to terms with it.
A bell went off in my head early on the morning of the day he died. How dare I feel sorry for myself while another human fought his death so valiantly. How dare I! This death wasn't about me. That we never came to an understanding about our estrangement seemed as much my fault as his. Even once was I ever honest with him? Did I ever tell him how it hurt me that I felt abandoned? Did I ever tell him how my children felt about not seeing him? I never did.
I felt so different from him. He hunted and fished. While I fished a little, I never hunted, and I wore my feelings on my sleeve. I wrote poetry. I ran away from my mother. I got in trouble sometimes, and became a hippy and never finished college. I broke more things than I ever had repaired. I couldn't fix a car, or properly pound a nail, or hunt down a buck for meat. I felt like a disappointment. Never could I ever be the boy he wanted. And it hurt me incredibly--this real or imagined disappointment.
For years I have been asleep. I fought depression, pain, and this angst that should have disappeared 40 years ago. I sucked the blood out of every relationship I ever had. I was a shit husband, a distraced father, and family ties scared me. I felt like a disappointment as husband, father, son, brother.
I know how much this seems like whining. That is who I was until yesterday.
I whispered my goodbyes to my father. I told him we were square. We were okay. How we both could have worked harder at it, but no worries, go in peace.
Leave it to the old man to hand out a lesson so late in the game. All these years wasted, and he finally taught me how to be a man.
I wish it could have been different.
God Bless you Dad.
Go in peace.
Happy Trails.