Part of this overwhelming sense of doom I'm feeling, is that, in his last couple of years of life, after my mom had died, my dad was penniless too. Still, we sold what we could of the treasures my parents had accrued over a lifetime together, hoping to sustain him on a little more comfort, a little bit longer, but most of it– paintings and signed lithographs, Knoll chairs that are still in the Museum of Modern Art in New York, and other examples of mid-century modern design was worthless to the capricious monster that is capitalism.
After his middle-of-the-night bathroom falls that left him with a broken hip and a concussion, unable to remain in his home, he was shunted from hospital to hospital, and rehab center to rehab center. Even while on his deathbed, the convalescent center where he was staying called me daily, telling me that, because his insurance had lapsed, they were going to have to "release" him; in other words, kick him out onto the street. While the cancer spread through his crumbling bones, he, and I, prayed that it would finally take him more quickly, only so that he wouldn't have to die homeless. He begged me to help him die, but I was afraid.
Most of you who knew me at the time might recall that in the midst of this terrible time, I suddenly had to leave him and return to New York, because my partner of 19 years, the love of my life, was suddenly dying of a cancer, none of us had even known she'd had, and on 2 November, 2 days before our anniversary, her heart stopped as I held her small, blue hand. Two days later, on our anniversary, I burried her.
That afternoon, on our way back from the cemetery, my phone rang, and it was the facility where my dad was, once again, calling to see if I could cover his expenses, and threatening that if not, they were going to have to evict him that coming Monday.
Thankfully, (I don't even remember how,) I was able to fenegel a few more "stays of execution", and on 27 February, 2023, shortly after his 89th birthday, penniless, and alone, my dad died.
It's almost 3 years later, and I haven't recovered from a single aspect of the serial losses of my mom in 2020, my wife in 2022, my dad in 2023, my family home and most of the belongings within it, and my relationship with the wider world since the horrors of 7.10.
It all adds more than I can even begin to disseminate from the overwhelming, all encompassing sense of overwhelm I already experience as a neurodivergent, navigating the intricacies of my day to day world.
Although never officially diagnosed, (because he was born in 1933,) my dad, like me, was autistic, and had crippling adhd. Like me, he was highly intelligent, an intellectual– boundlessly, passionately curious about the world around him, and unfortunately, completely useless when it came to surviving it.
Throughout my life, we'd had an uneasy, and tumultuous relationship, but I loved him, and I wish more than anything I had understood him better; I wish I'd understood that he wasn't as constantly angry as he often seemed, he was panicked, and afraid, and because I often read his outbursts as mere desire for control, and a terrifying fury at me for not being more readily controllable, my own behaviour towards him was more often than not, cold.
I'm so sorry dad.
Once, at 17, following an unsuccessful suicide attempt, I was hospitalised in the psych unit of Miami Children's Hospital. My parents came to visit, and take me out for a meal, but in the car, we had a fight, and I lashed out at my dad, saying, "I don't want to be anything like you! You're nothing!". He said nothing back, but my mom later told me that after they'd dropped me off back at the hospital, crying, my dad had to pull over to the side of the road, and throw up.
Again, I'm so sorry dad. I wish that I could go back in time and just hug you and tell you how much I really do love you.
I suppose that that's the reality of karma; not only will I never be able to make ammends, but here I am, at 56, and apart from the cancer, (as far as I know, ) the threats that he escaped by dying, are the threats that will now most likely follow me for the remainder of my own life, and for the exact same reason: despite my cruel proclimation that day in the car, as it turns out, I am in fact, exactly like my dad.
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