Monday, January 2, 2017

My Father is dying

When we were kids we heard many times, “at some point in your life you will know someone that has died of cancer.” That’s how common cancer was twenty, thirty years ago. At this point I have almost lost track of how many people I know very personally that have died of some form of cancer, that’s not taking into consideration those that fought and have lived to tell the tale.

Now, a new year is born and already I have to prepare myself for the inevitable outcome that my estranged father has brain tumors and lay in a coma with no discernable future. A number of, impossible to manage, emotions come flooding in and start to take over. Among them the idea that most of the people I have known to have or fight cancer are from my family, I now have to take into account whether or not brain tumors are hereditary or just a cause of his lifestyle and environment.

I have no way of knowing if it’s hereditary. See we know nothing of my father’s biological family because the one person that knew who his family was (his adopted mother) has literally taken that information to her grave. So now, for medical history, we have nothing but my father’s life to start with hereditary diseases and diagnoses, which in and of itself is a thorny maze of misconception and misdiagnosis of an array of problems.

After years of working to stay in contact, all I wanted was to know his story. Told from his perspective. Because in the end it doesn’t matter what others perceived as his story the only real truth is the one he lived, his perception on life. I want to know every paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressed, bipolar detail. If nothing else for my own safety and well being, but to know the truth would be pivotal in building my future.

I’ve spent years trying to understand myself and my interactions with the world. And I understand that most of that has to do with my experiences in my environment. But, I also know that a big part of who we are and how we develop is from genetics. I mean there’s something to be said about the fact that I have never really been afraid of many physical dangers.

But, since I can remember, I have always been afraid of social interactions, meeting people, talking to people on the telephone, asking for directions, etc.; the small things. Those are my hurdles everyday until the day I die. Since a very young age I came to terms with the fact that I might die tomorrow and my attitude toward that has always been, I’m not going to wait around for it I’m going to enjoy what I can while I can and pursue a life of happiness.


My point is if I can learn about my history then I can better prepare for the future.

2 comments:

Madison Harding said...

I come from a family full of mental illness and I have lived for many years with some of those family members. Many of these conditions are hereditary just like your father’s brain tumors very well may be. Mental illness should be taken just as seriously as physical illness. Just like a broken leg needs a cast, or an infection needs antibiotics, often mental illness needs treatment. Please understand that this comes from a place of caring. Not seeking treatment doesn’t just hurt yourself, but also those closest to you. You are seeing this first hand with your father.

You always post the hashtag #nobodycaresgoharder. The truth is people do care. The people that matter in your life care. When things get rough is when you see who the important people, who actually give a shit about you are. Don’t wait to seek help until you have burned all the people that care deeply for you. Perhaps it is time to examine your own history so as not to repeat the pain.

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects.” -H. Melville

Mahola said...

I've made far too many decisions for the wrong reasons. Perspective is bringing everything back into focus. I'm sorry doesn't cut it. I hope the actions in the coming months can begin to express the sorrow and guilt I feel for my actions and hurt that I've caused. Love may change but it never dies.