Chapter 8 - Not If, But When
In which I continue Part 1 "Burial of the Dead" of my memoir "My Own Private Waste Land"
Chapter 8 – Not If, But When
I heard about my brother’s death while watching my father-in-law die. August in Sterling, Virginia was hot, but not Kansas hot.
Edward lay dying on a hospital bed. We – my wife (Edward’s surviving daughter), stepdaughter, and mother-in-law -- gathered in the swanky marble hospital, like a mausoleum, witnesses to the moment, electronic monitors beeping like clocks winding down, tick tick tick tock.
My phone rang in my pocket, echoing in the mostly empty room. My wife and mother-in-law shot disapproving looks as if I had made the phone ring. The ringing stopped.
I glanced surreptitiously at my phone. It is my father, I worry.
I hurried to the cold hallway to call back.
It is my father.
Our family plan: If you go somewhere, leave a phone number where you can be reached, in case of emergency.
I never faltered in following the family plan. Just in case.
The phone had never rung before. Not like this.
My parents knew where I was, why I was on this trip. A phone call from them could mean only one thing.
I’m 3,000 miles away.
No! Not my father. No no no no no! I fret.
I am focused on my father-in-law, on the entire concept of “father,” a struggle I have adopted watching my wife work through whatever demons she faced watching her father die.
No! not my father.
I called back. My father answered, and I was immediately confused. “Dad?”
I heard his anguished cry, the eternal primal hurt that cannot be unheard.
“He jumped. Lynn. He jumped.”
He choked, stumbling on the words.
My tears flowed faster than the knowledge of what happened could reach my brain, faster than knowledge made memory, than memory made fact. I saw my tears hit the floor, though I couldn’t see through them, a flood of tears like in a cartoon. My body slumped.
“Oh. Dad.”
It was my brother. A family emergency, the family emergency, waiting to happen for 13 years, foretold like biblical prophecy. We had waited so long that we had almost stopped looking for it. Thirteen years of not if, but when. An emergency as dependable as Southern California sun. Or drought.
My brother jumped off the Fremont Bridge in Portland, Oregon.
In Sterling, Virginia, the circle prayer around my father-in-law included me now, my grief stealing from Edward von Halbach’s death, a prayer offered to include the newly dead juxtaposed to the newly dying.
Edward died surrounded by those who loved--and hated--him. His daughter wept and held his hand. His abandoned widow scowled in anger.
We booked flights 3,000 miles west. Two funerals, one week.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. One more short chapter for Part 1 and then we’re into Part 2 - A Game of Chess, also a collection of shorter chapter.
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I write about:
writing, literature, and the writing life
writing process
memoir craft
mental illness - major depressive disorder, suicide, borderline personality disorder, narcissistic personality disorder
sailing
alternative lifestyles - polyamory and kink
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Just keep writing!
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