Six years ago this past week, my dad died. I think I’m finally coming to terms with it all, coming to terms with the fact that he was no father to me, that he literally left my sister & me to fend for ourselves almost twenty years prior to his death, when my sister & I were merely teenagers. Ahh, but that was just the legal part (if it’s even true, but who cares, because to delve deeper would involve characters in my life that I hate and care not to associate with ever again).

In retrospect, “dad” left me and my sister behind, many years before that. Recent revelations make a lot of shit make sense and at the same time leave me as confused as ever. But one thing is for sure, I should never have even tried to pretend I had a biological father growing up. I just wish I hadn’t wasted all that energy pretending I did.

I’m working on closure, or whatever you want to call it. Kinda hard, because the one thing I really want to do is confront that asshole, about a lot of things, but he’s just a collection of ashes in my so-called stepmother’s house, a property I will never set foot on again, and a property I was never comfortable setting foot on in the first place.

I’m in a weird place. Of course I’m not glad he’s dead, or that he went through such a horrible experience as cancer. I just wish I could have realized years ago that he was not worth dealing with, not worth divorcing myself from the rest of his family, not wasting all the energy. It would have made the lead-up to, and the aftermath of, his death so much easier.

But how strange it is, to have all these “ah ha” moments, years after the fact; they have been flowing for months, ever since my sister & I finally requested a copy of dad’s will — an attempt at closure which, for the last few months, it has opened more wounds, but I believe ultimately will close the books on this for good. A friend rhetorically asked me recently, “was he really such a horrible man?”. The answer is yes, and it’s because he managed to present a front of kindness that makes people question my judgment on him, while all the time he was alive he was being a cheater and a liar and a shirker of responsibility to humans he brought into the world. He was good, to many people — when he could manage, and when it suited him. But he was rarely much to me and I say you bring a person into this world, you suck it up and be good to that person, you be a father to that person. You raise him, as best you can (even being a guy who left the house when your son is all of five years old, because you wanted to take up with a secretary you were having sex with while you were married to the aforementioned son’s mother (and let’s not even get into all the other women that followed, for years, women the son knows about and can prove, in case certain people are reading)).

And that means being involved in his life, caring about what he’s interested in, even if it’s not what you’re interested in. Being a force in the kid’s life. Being a fan, an advocate, when you can (full time is the ideal, but more than 2% is required, I feel).

Not pretending to be the kid’s father.

Not expecting to get a pass, when the kid is an adult.

Certainly not making the kid never want to have kids of his own — which is precisely what my dad did.

You can go back and read my posts from six years ago, when I struggled with the feelings of loss and anger simultaneously. It’s not evident in many of the posts, I was busy playing the sad son. But under the surface, starting from the day of his memorial service, a lot of shit came roaring back. And it’s been messing with me ever since.

I’d like to say this post is some sort of liberation decree, that starting today I walk forward without the memories of all that was wrong with my childhood (and adolescence, and hell, even adulthood), but alas I cannot guarantee that. Shit, I wouldn’t be writing this if that were true. But I am resolving today to start exhaling. And breath by breath, the shit inside me that is the product of four decades of bullshit and denial, will be expunged from my mental database. If I can’t do that, I’ll go crazy.

From the information sheet on Emma’s latest cancer medication:

WARNING: Although this is a cancer medication, chlorambucil can cause another type of cancer…

Greaaaat. I wonder if the medication for the cancer that chlorambucil causes, causes cancer too? Round and round we go, Roche, Pfizer, Merck-Medco! Sheesh.

It’s Lymphoma; both the mediastinal kind and the alimentary kind. Stage IVb. And as we all know from Johnny Sack, there really is no Stage V. Emma’s in serious trouble.

Emma gets oral prednisone and IV fluids for the weekend, to hopefully keep her comfortable. Monday we see the vet in person to talk about the strategy going forward. Chemo is the only real treatment option. We’re probably gonna try it and see how she does on the crap, but survival rates with this cancer are fair to partly cloudy, even with good response to the chemotherapy.

My head is in a fog.

Welp, it looks like Emma’s probably got cancer.

Fluids were drained, things were biopsied. More tests underway; expecting results tomorrow or Saturday. Nothing to do between now and then but pet the cat.

Shit.

Well, we just returned from the vet, and our fears have been confirmed. Emma is at least in the beginning stages of kidney disease, and she may have cancer to boot. We’ve heard this crap before, and Emma’s always dodged the bullets, but white blood cell counts and BUN values don’t lie. The immediate order is for hydration, and so—armed with a large bag of lactated ringers and a fistful of syringes—I get to do my very best John Gage impersonation on Emma tonight as we try to gradually re-hydrate her in time for tomorrow’s scheduled ultrasound test. Hopefully the ultrasound will allow the vet to get a better look at both the kidneys as well as the mass the she feels in Emma’s gastrointestinal tract, see what that’s all about.

Emma ate quite a bit at the vet while we waited for results, and her first injection of fluids seems to be helping. So, it’s not the end of the road, but we do seem to be on that fuckin’ road. Now we need to find out how long a road it is. You just really never know. Kidney disease can be a long slow burn, so maybe she’s got plenty more quality time left. Monday, Emma’ll have a follow-up exam and we’ll get more results, and have more of a picture to look at. For the first time since she got diagnosed with hyperthyroidism three years ago, I find myself looking at Emma and wondering “how long”? It’s really a shitty mindset.

Three years today; three years since my dad died. And at this point, I’ve got mixed emotions. Today was also the final day of the Giro d’Italia and the penultimate episode of “The Sopranos”. Interesting.

You know what, dad kinda sucked as a father. I mean, he was a good guy, sorta, but looking back he was genuinely lousy at the whole dad thing. I have no doubt he loved my sister and I, but that doesn’t quite ink the deal. I could go on and on and on, but that’s really not going to change anything or bring him back for another try. He didn’t know how to do it, and I’m fairly certain I don’t either. But then that’s why I chose to not do the whole parenting thing.

Sorry for the crappy post, but that’s what’s on my mind right now.