2008.02.19 Goodbye Dad
a second miserable attempt
I wish the overweight elephant that's standing on my chest would go away already. I hate the futile feeling of being trapped inside myself, wanting to scream out what I feel but finding that there's nothing I can say to express it. And to have every single word tear at me with painful barbs, but to feel like there aren't enough words said yet.
Writing the obituary was a miserable experience, producing far more sodden tissues than words.
Fred Castle
1945.12.18 - 2008.02.10The adventures of Fred Castle have come to a close. He worked hard, played hard, and loved fiercely, but now he rests.
His family remember a man of sharp intellect, solemn dignity, and extravagant joy. He skied like he was flying on clouds, he read like he was going to be tested on everything, and he drove like he was chasing a dream. He taught us by example how to do whatever needed to be done while simultaneously enjoying life. We hope to honour him by passing on these lessons in a similar manner.
The tireless love and care from his wife of almost 40 years helped him stay with us a bit longer. It has been a cherished gift.
A memorial gathering for Fred is being planned.
I whispered to my wife, "I don't understand the world. I feel like the sun should dim and fall from the sky, and the oceans should drain, and the land should be swept quietly away. All the props of this empty stage should be folded up and put away now that the story is done. Yet somehow everyone is going on like nothing has happened." It feels ridiculous to share, with it's artless allusions, but it did something important. It let my wife show me that she understood.
Having her with me, through the pilgrimage to and from my heartland, was something of immeasurable significance for me. I prepared to go as if I was in a trance; I didn't invite her or even think of her. All I knew was that I had to go, and everything else was obscured by my grief. But finding her shoulder there, ready when I needed it, I understood how much more awful it could have been. Had she not been there, my sadness would have branded me and left me forlornly trying for the rest of my life to convey what it had been like, but never feeling like it could be adequately understood. With her there, she saw the grief in my eyes as it danced across my soul, and she witnessed the truth of my sorrow. We were together as it changed us both, and so entwined us even more than before.
So, the lesson here was that sharing pain and grief with loved ones can be a good thing. A lesson, I'm sad to say, that I have a hard time internalizing. Because my prototypical model for everything was my dad, and he was very reticent about admitting any pain or suffering. I can't help but respect his stubbornness, but I don't doubt that some would have gladly borne the burden of knowing more about his trials for the sake of feeling closer to him. Though, I, myself, don't think that was really much of a limitation between the two of us. We were too similar for such deceits to matter.
It's odd to realize just how close we really were. By a lot of measures, we didn't didn't interact all that much. But, when I look at the truth of it, we had a profound understanding that didn't require any elaborate ritual or demonstration. It makes the loss all the more terrible, as I keep finding vast chasms in my world.
There's not much accumulated among the bits and scraps of the book I started to write about you, dad, suffering as it did from my lack of focus and preference to write pure fiction. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I gleefully imagined showing it to you one day - proud of the essential and elusive truths I had netted with my playful twisting of facts into the stories we lived. I don't know how I reconciled for so long my understanding that you could slip away at any time with a hope that you would last for years sufficient to see so many hopes realized.
So it goes.
You taught me well. I will pass on what I have learned. You rest.
I love you. I will think of you, always.