I found out a man who was a friend of my Dad's passed away recently. I read the name in the obituaries and suspected it was him. Unfortunately, I missed several days on Facebook so I didn't know it was him until yesterday.
What got me are the pictures his youngest daughter posted. A picture of him with his granddaughter but he was on a feeding machine and other life sustainers. Then there were pictures at our local cemetery - the one most people are buried in. He was laid to rest near a friend's father who I visit on her behalf. It was strange and it was sad.
I've already told the story of my dad's passing, the grotesque viewing and the bitch (not my mom) he married. It's hard to reconcile and even harder to forget the memories of those 24 hours. His ashes are gone, I was not mentioned in the obituary and she moved out of their leased town home is less than a week.
I don't feel sorry for myself but it's one of those aches that hasn't gone away. Healing is taking its time which I guess is a good thing. I'm not doing anything to stop it which is a first.
I've often asked God, "Why did my dad hate me so much? Why did he beat my little body so that my personality split and I became an angry protector? Why did he stop talking to me three years before his death? What did I do?"
That last question I've been asking since I can remember. "What did I do that was so bad that my dad has to beat me?" There never was an answer.
No wake. No funeral. A one and a half hour viewing for my sisters and I. Never saw the urn. Never received ashes. Found one of his slippers in the garbage.
Is there pain in healing? You bet.
There's also healing in the pain.
But I'm not there yet.
