January 20, 2004
Will
My son Will died three years ago yesterday. He was 43. I’m not sure whether my vanity will ever let me recover.
A part of my grief is that I never knew him. He was one of our four, the middle son of three, our daughter, the oldest. He was different, almost from his birth, an outcast. His tastes, his take on life, his “style” always mystified the rest of us. I tried early on to “meet him where he was.” Most of the time, I failed.
From unfinished high school, he went into the navy at my encouragement. I thought it would offer him a chance for the self-esteem he never got at home. It may have done just the opposite.
I hear his voice now as present as ever when he would call long distance, “Father, this is your son… ” We both, of course, knew there were two other sons, and we both knew he was the only one who called me “father.” We both probably knew, as well, that he needed to remind me of that, but even more, I needed reminding. He never forgot.
The pain remembering this is as immediate as the word about his death that came, according to his clinician, from hepatitis C and cirrhosis. He knew, though, as well as I, that he was only being loyal to his family’s disease of gene and choice — acute alcoholism. He was not an outcast at all.
How moving…Would like to know more.
Comment by michael mcneely — January 21, 2004 @ 12:21 pm