We are moving towards the end of the year, which means that we are closer to a day where the world changes, at least for the moment. People are kinder.
Families gather and people exchange gifts, and for the while, there is a spirit of hope and goodwill to all.
There is a song that sings, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.”
I cannot say that I have always appreciated the Christmas season. I have memoires and moments and times where I experienced loss, or most of all, I remember back in 1989 when The Old Man was in the hospital on Christmas Eve.
I remember this well.
I spent a few hours on a bus coming home from an Upstate farm. I was remanded here by the court system. I had been moved from one treatment facility to another until landing on the farm, which I have always seen as a pivotal place. I underwent a transformation here. I experienced life and change here. I grew here and yes, a piece of me died here.
But not in a bad way.
I remember there was snow on the ground. I remember leaning my head on the window of the bus and mindlessly watching the landscapes on the side of the highway.
I can remember trying to make a deal with God. I wanted to make a plea or see if there was a way to make an offer.
I assumed that since my young life was mainly ruined and since I was responsible for being hurtful and destructive, that perhaps there could be an agreement that was more attractive and beneficial to the world around me.
Let The Old Man pull through and let me take his place.
The Old Man lived a hard life. He had his own challenges and feelings. He had a past as well and an entire life that existed, long before I was born.
He had other children to which there was a story for each of them. I knew very little about these things. But then again, I was much younger and often kept out of the loop about other family matters.
Safe to say that I knew about the problems that come with divorce. The Old Man was married before, which was another life for him. Or perhaps I should say that I was able to see this from The Old Man’s perspective. I could only understand this through my perspective, which is not to say that my Father talked about his feelings or revealed what happened or what went on that led to his divorce.
No. My Old Man kept his feelings to himself.
Mom never told me much about these things either, except that The Old Man was broken for a long time before they met. Perhaps this is how fate shows us that life can come with a better promise.
We move and change, and we can live and endure the twists and turns, but in the end, fate and destiny have a plan which is beyond our understanding.
I never knew much about The Old Man’s first family. I was always the young one, which meant that I was always too young to inquire, nor was I ever allowed to inquire because The Old Man never wanted to share the details with me. This is not to say that his other children were not in the picture at all, but only sporadic and more so, I only knew them for short periods of time.
I was much, much younger than everyone and thus, I was always seen as a little child.
I never knew much about my other brother and my two sisters. However, this is not about them, nor is this about the consequences of divorce, parental alienation, or anything of the sort.
Instead, this is a story about a time when all was supposed to be merry and bright. This is about a time that changed my life. Christmas time, December of 1989.
The challenges that come with substance and alcohol abuse can make recovery harder than it seems.
When we think about what happened or when we feel the emotions or deal with the consequences we face when we realize what we have done, or when the fog lifts, or at the time when the awareness settles in; I can assure you that it is difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
It is hard to believe in the word forgiveness.
It is uncomfortable to realize or consider what happened or what was done, and when we face ourselves and see the truth in our emotional reflection, we find pain or the discomfort and the truth behind our actions. These are the symptoms that causes people to run from their past.
Or better, these are the challenges that make it hard to face everything and recover.
The bus ride to the hospital was long.
The sky was gray and dark. The snowfall was heavy, but the bus was warm and, me, I was looking out at the snowfall on Christmas Eve and seeing the wintry mix of snow and holiday decorations from a window seat at the back of a mostly empty bus.
I can recall pulling into the bus station. I can remember the dark and dingy room where the cab stand was and the small defective little Christmas tree that was standing atop the television. There were three big Christmas colored lightbulbs, on the small plastic tree.
One red, one blue, and one green.
I had to wait for the cab to arrive and take me to the hospital. The television was playing the movie Jesus of Nazareth. The lights in the waiting area were off. The picture from the television was glowing in an otherwise dim place, which was warm too.
The room smelled like old furniture and cigarettes. The tired carpeting had seen better days. The white walls were filthy and reflective of the flashes from bluish light of the television set.
I remember this.
I remember the cab arriving and taking me to a place called Hempstead General. This was the last station for The Old Man.
He never made it home.
I recall finding where he was in the Coronary Care Unit. I can remember how the floor was dark since the hour was late and most of the visitors gone. It seemed as if everybody was gone, with the exception of the desperate families and the nursing staff.
I remember The Old Man was in his hospital bed with the back lifted. There was a light behind him on the wall, which was not bright, per se, but the light shone upon him, as if to act as a dramatic spotlight, or somehow illustrative of my Father, The Old Man, sitting alone and staring up at the ceiling. I don’t know what he was thinking. I suppose he was contemplating the end of his life.
He didn’t notice me at first.
I remember the Christmas decorations around the unit. I recall thinking how the decorations appeared to be a joyful attempt to bring hope to the otherwise hopeless.
However, I was neither hopeless nor hopeful. No, I was a witness to the world, and perhaps making my plea — as if to say, Dear God. Please don’t take my Father from me.
I remember the things that used to make me run away or hide. I remember the fears and the pain, or the bouts in my head. I remember the need to escape or to not be present.
At the same time, I was given the chance to see my Father and spend the last few days of his life with him.
I understand that I made a plea with God.
I asked him to come see us but He never showed . . .
I still have bouts and uncomfortable memories with Christmas time. I still think of the bittersweetness of Christmas music, or the way decorations change the streets and the homes on the block.
I think about the meaning behind the spirit of this holiday.
I often wonder what The Old Man would have been like if he survived the last few heart attacks. But more, I wonder what he would say to me now, or what he would think of me.
I wonder how he would advise me to be, or if he would tell me to change my thinking or that I should change my ways.
Maybe he would tell me to cut it out.
Or maybe he would understand, which was a problem between us.
He never understood why I couldn’t “just” do things differently.
I couldn’t explain myself. I was young.
I was going through the new chapters of my upcoming life.
I was afraid. I had the ability to implode or turn inward and therefore, it was difficult for me to go, or to be, or to do anything without regarding my fears or the anxious concerns that something would almost always go wrong.
I know that the older always looks to advise the younger.
It wasn’t all too long ago that I was the young one.
But now I’m the older one who sees and understand why the younger finds it hard to listen or to understand.
I suppose my Father would tell me how he looks back and regrets how he was.
I’m sure that he regrets how he let his emotions steal him away from the moments that he should have enjoyed.
I have always been told to stay out of my head or to stop playing that movie in my mind.
I can see the times where I should have been present,
but my mind was elsewhere.
I can see how time is irreplaceable.
You’ll never get a minute back ponce it’s gone.
That makes this time between us valuable.
I suppose The Old Man would tell me to try not let this happen.
Maybe he would tell me about the time he wasted because he lived in his own head too much.
Or maybe he would tell me, I miss you too, son.
Try not to be so hard on yourself.
Everyone is trying to figure things out for themselves.
Maybe he would tell me that I am better than I think.
Or maybe he would tell me that he is proud of me.
He never said this to me.
But he did tell me this before he died.
Well,
It’s almost that time of year, Pop.
It’s hard to think that I have not seen or heard your voice since December 29, 1989.
Life is life.
But maybe life is like the way Mom tried to explain.
We go through twists and turns, but fate and destiny have a trick of their own.
And one day, life will never be perfect, but as imperfect as we are, maybe I will find the perfect place for me.
I think I’ll work on that, Pop.
I wish you were here.
There’s a few things I’d like to show you and someone I’d like you to meet.
Oh, and tell Mom not to worry. I know it’s cold outside. But I’m bundled up. I don’t suppose it snows where you two live now.
But maybe I can take a few pictures next time it does.
The mailman doesn’t go where you live now, so I suppose I can send them out to the Universe, with hopes that they will find you both.
Or, you two can come for a visit at any time.
Just let me know when.
I promise to always be around.
I love you, Pop.
I miss you.
Your son,
B –
The Written Addiction 