Many memories are flooding my psyche. My father died 49 years ago today of a stroke.  He was 56 years old, 8 years less than I am right now.  I never really got to know him.  How well do you get to know anyone at age 15?  His death was the most tragic event of my life.

His death was without dignity.  The rabbi was a self-absorbed fool. His doctor knew he was ill, but did nothing to help his massive headaches.  The gravediggers were still digging the hole in the earth for my dad’s casket while the service was underway.  The hospital was cruel to my mother and didn’t even let us see my dying father.  Every American institution failed us.

When I think about the days of his dying and time shortly after his death, I become enraged.  A deep pain develops in my stomach and erupts in my throat.  The tears come out like volcano lava leaving nothing but scorched earth.

For 49 years I have tried to restore dignity to my Dad’s life and death.  I have tried to be a good man hoping my efforts will eradicate the abusive acts that happened to my dad and our family in 1966.  At times I am conscious of the source of my actions and other times it happens out of my awareness.  I stand up for social justice.  My work as a dedicated psychotherapist goes deep into the night.  I cry when I think about how my dad didn’t live to see all his dreams come true.  I hurt inside knowing I will never be able to undo what happened during that stark, cold month of November.

You can’t change the past is what they say. I’ve been going against that grain and have found that what they say is true.  My family and close friends recently had a memorial for my dad.  It was uplifting, heart wrenching and my father’s life was finally honored.  He was a kind man who taught me the meaning of hard work.  He showed us the importance of family.  He taught me how to persevere and to never give up. He taught me how to be an athlete and devote myself to running.  His life and death taught me how to face loss and teach it to others.  He taught me that my love will not be broken.

I still sometimes have the need to prove to the world that my dad was a good man, not deserving of disrespect and indifference.  When those memories of the gravediggers kick in I want to scream.  It took my most of my life to realize that my father loved me.  There are photos to prove it.  I am not going to let that go, ever.

I realize today that when my father died, I developed an ingrained belief that I must have done something terrible for this tragedy to happen.  Guilt was my shadow and I secretly believed that I deserved to suffer.  I never could figure out what I did that was so horrible.  Maybe I mistreated my father.  Perhaps I wasn’t a good enough student.  Maybe I was just a rotten person.

Traumatic memories that surround my dad’s death are appearing now.  None of them are new and none of them have not been faced before.  However where these thoughts and feelings once came to me in numbness or thoughts only, now I was getting the full three-D version.  I can taste, smell, see, hear and experience these moments in time.  I remember fighting with my dad, the tone deaf teachers, my mother’s withdrawal from me(she couldn’t grieve and deal with my grief  and my sister’s loss at the same time), high school romance and broken hearts, failing grades, working as a cook and movie theater usher, smoking in the basement, feeling so desperately alone and lost.

I am crying, grieving and being normal.  I am honoring all that happened and I am as close to it as I can be until the next time.

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