We sat outside in the driveway, both inhaling our poison, his was the devil's piss and mine was the earth's hair. We talked again, touching on matters such as death, god, and religion. Desperately trying to comfort one another.
I noticed something within him that i've dealt with my entire life, his words came out of the diaphragm, his chest rising shallow.
i asked him why, how, what he thinks of it all.
He looked at me and said he hasn't been doing well, he held a hand over his chest, asking why the heart was on the devil's side, the left.
He said he could feel his heart quiver, and told me not to worry.
over the next few weeks he'd use my vehicle to go up town, to get his medicine, every morning, ten o clock, after my shift, i knew what he was up to, but what other alternative was there?
that's the question i ask myself, what was i to do?
his body was failing, if he went sober he'd be in pain and fear, at least this way he could muster up the numbness to talk and call and bullshit with the people he called family.
well, that's the way i see it, or at least the way i've made myself see it.
The last two days we spent together was sad, to say the least.
The amonia levels in his body were too high, his blood platelets were too low, his liver and bone marrow working as an assassin, even after more platelets were pumped in to him at the hospital, the liver and marrow killed them.
The amonia forced delirium, he'd ask repeatedly where his wife was and i'd tell him, getting increasingly more angry the more he repeated himself, something i can never be proud of.
Just before my mother left for a few days, he smashed his fingers in a door, and the damage was apparent after a single day, his fingers were black as pitch, a dark aura moved up his arm, he complained and said his only option was holding it in the air.
And still he told me not to worry.
I broke down when his delirium got out of control and yelled at him. He replied.
"NO ONE GIVES A FUCK ABOUT ME!"
"THAT'S WHY I DRINK, YOU DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME."
"SEAN, A MAN ISN'T SUPPOSED TO CRY."
"that's bullshit dad, do you remember when you were a kid, how great it felt to let that moment of catharsis run through you?
and don't ever tell me that i don't care about you, that's bullshit, THAT'S BULLSHIT!"
he sat on the couch in a button up t shirt, and i could see, i could see the blood from the sores on his body leaking through, i noticed how the old rash on his hands had moved further up, becoming a rough exterior akin to scales, and something in me said what no one wants to say or think, that the horizon was near.
He left for the hospital, and i really wish i remembered what he'd said to me, i wish i could say i hugged him, i wish i knew, i wish, but i don't.
Tonight i was told that he refused life support, that they put him on a respirator, that his liver was failing, that he might not make it through the night.
He may be gone as i type this, he may still be holding on, but i know we've all given up.
And you can say that that is a bad thing to do, i reject this claim.
I look at like this, a forty eight year long day's sun is finally setting, and rest shall come over the night, he will no longer have a body betrayed, but the painlessness of nothingness, or if what everyone says is true, he'll know god, love, peace.
And i really believe he helped me out tonight, three a.m. and i managed to score an unopened pint of whiskey and half a case of beer.
After an evening of singing, of hating, of fear, of acceptance, of tears i was rewarded with the unexpected kiss of numbness.
The fluidity of words to write this piece.
Moving on will be a bitch, but at least he's not destroying himself, at least we won't have to watch him destroy himself, but the reoccurring moments of weakness are taking it's toll, thank god for cheap liquor.
And thank god for my father.
i will miss you pops, i will miss you.
I will wear my hair short like traditions past, for you, for me.