Dusk is settling upon the little hamlet in central PA that is my part-time home. My grand plans for this Father's Day were insignificant. I am reading three books right now, a fantasy title from my friend Chris Evans, a book on preparing to hike the AT, and a very academic tome on Truman and MacArthur. All of these are enjoyable, but I spent $6.98 at a bookstore yesterday to pick up a remaindered copy of a Patricia
Cornwell novel so that I could enjoy the best of escapist fiction. I had decided that when it cooled off this afternoon, I would enjoy this treat on the back deck with visions of a cool breeze dancing across the freshly cut grass dancing in my head. Well, it's cool enough now, but it's also too dark. To turn on a light would merely invite bugs to annoy me. And my way of dealing with annoying bugs while reading is to slam the book shut when one alights on a page. But I digress.
This Father's Day found me scrounging through my address book, looking for a doctor friend to help me with an attack of bleeding ulcer. Only once or twice a year does this happen now, because I have (mostly) learned what triggers these attacks: red wine, acetaminophen, jalapenos, uncooked strawberries, and a few other things. Usually, one of the over-the-counter meds can prevent an attack. But without prevention, an attack will cause me to double over in pain, the feeling akin to a knife sawing in and out of my abdomen. I can tell (believe it or not) when mere GERD becomes ulcerative and bleeding.
Alas, of the dozen or so MDs, DOs, PAs and ARNPs in my address book, none could I reach. I began my search for an UrgentCare center, the nearest of which is at Holy Spirit Hospital just a couple of miles from my Camp Hill location. Finally, an MD friend returned my call, made a call of his own to Rite-Aid and presto! Prev-Pak in my hands (Prevacid with an antibiotic). For you see, stomach ulcers are caused by bacteria, but can be triggered by certain foods. In the end, my new vision of a peaceful, easy evening will be a peaceful, easy evening in the digestive track. So far, so good.
But back to Father's Day. I couldn't help but wonder if Father's Day might also be a trigger for the attack of the tummy, in the psychosomatic sense. When I started running around doing errands this morning, every damn station on the radio was playing songs related to "daddies" or "fathers" or whatever bullshit. The lady at Arby's wished me a wonderful "Father's Day." I looked at Facebook for a little bit and Father's Day wishes abounded. Finally, my PA landlord asked me something innocuous about Father's Day. Then I started figuring. I'm not exactly sure, but my best guess is that it's been 15 years since I've seen the excuse for a man who was married to my mother for 30+ years. My mother, my brother and I all still can show the scars on our bodies and tell of the scars on our hearts that came from the hands and screams of henry.
I may have said it before, but I have a step-mother I've never met, along with two step-brothers. Since my mother left my father, he has been in and out of jail, along with his new wife, been kicked out of church for having two living wives, decided to start preaching in an attempt to make an end-run around that, and become more of a thorn because I sometimes feel guilty in my mind, thinking there must have been something that I could have done, or should have done, that would have changed everything!
In a cruel twist of irony, henry once promised me a trip to visit Gettysburg. I was scheduled to deliver the "Gettysburg Address" during a school play in 2nd grade. Rather than just read it, henry encouraged me to memorize it. I love a challenge! So, there I was, timid, young feller of 7, reciting words I didn't know to entertain a hometown crowd. Here it is 2010 now, and that is one more disappointment in henry (the emotional pains are much deeper and longer-lasting than the physical pains). The irony? I spend a lot of time within spitting distance of Gettysburg. I still want to go, even though it's now 32 years later. And one of these days I will go. But I won't go alone. I'm going to drag along an honest-to-goodness loved one! (Salve for the soul!)
And then it dawned on me that so many of my loved ones have lost their fathers to the next life, like my PA landlord. I merely have lost my father to this life. That helps the self-pity a bit, because at least I have a choice. Those who lose their fathers to death didn't have a choice. Their fathers were stolen. My heart hurts for them. I can't honestly say that it hurts more for them, because I will never know that pain--only mine. But I'm reasonably sure that some of that pain must overlap. For that, I share your sorrow, and tomorrow, this "Hallmark Holiday" will once again fade into the background for another year. Giving me the time to forget the bad times, and my loved ones time to remember the good times.
While wailing in tummy pain today, I did get a little dewey-eyed. But I didn't cry. I made up my mind a couple of years ago that never again will anyone ever see me cry, and I've been mostly successful at that. I'm getting even better with each passing day. The best way to avoid letting someone see you cry is to make sure you never cry. One more item on the list of self improvement that I soon will be able to mark as "complete."
