About a month and a half ago I departed for Greece, in accordance with my annual custom of blowing all of the leave I accrue per annum (or even going into debt) in one fell swoop, all for a taste of the good times the motherland can offer. Generally speaking, I try to time it for New Years' or the peak of summer time, for maximum bachannalia.
Well, that's not exactly 100% accurate. I also go there to see the half of my family that still resides there, and most specifically my father--who I have only seen for a bit of a time since my parents divorced.
Four-five days after leaving Greece this time around, and the morning after a nice party (drinking, dancing, eating, and farewelling friends for about about 14 or so hours), I got a call from one of my favorite uncles, also my father's truest friend and benefactor. He called me to tell me that he found my father dead.
My father and I shared kind of a complicated relationship. While I have always loved him uncompromisingly, only in the last 4-5 years have we been able to accept each others' mutual courses in life. To his constant worry and distress I have pursued a military career that has placed me in locales and situations he'd rather I never dealt with. On his end, he has refused to put down the bottle that cost him his family and peace of mind, among other things.
For as long as I'd known him, my father was a sort of alcoholic Peter Pan. Most addicts have what they'd call a reason, or at least an excuse, for their vice; I believe that years ago my father saw in alcohol a way to continue being young in the face of things that I guess scared him. My dad had been a wheeler and dealer who had visited every continent save Antarctica, a living, breathing exemplar of what I saw as being "rock-and-roll." Things like becoming a family man without having the grounding and wisdom of his own father were probably alien to him. Unable to reconcile with his lifestyle choices, my mother took as away and we came to the States. It wasn't until several years later that I noticed a change in my dad. Where once he drank out of some need to feel like life was still a party, I started noticing that he drank because he simply had nothing else in his life.
Penthouse apartment across the Acropolis? Empty and full of so many reminders of the people that once filled it, who made it worth being in.
Beautiful, rich girlfriend in Myconos? Painful reminder that it's too late to play at getting married again.
Friends? Dead, or moved on with their families.
I did what I could to take away the sadness my dad was mired in. I called him once or twice a week, and we tried to pretend like we didn't have thousands of miles and months to go between us. I saw him as often as I could, but it broke my heart knowing that my inevitable departure made him hurt more than seeing me arrive gave him joy. Little by little, though, I started understanding that he was trying to set himself up for a change.
It took a while, but we made a covenant. I'd go for a European assignment, and my dad would try for a positive change in his life. During the New Years' that just went by, we toasted my anticipated move to either Italy or Germany (we both preferred the former of the two) and capped it all off with an amazing derby between our favorite football team and their hated rivals. We hadn't lived moments like that since I was single digits years old. And I guess we never will again.
Seeing his brother, who is also my Godfather, at the funeral broke my heart. The man had a stroke the same day his brother died, but he knew nothing of the latter's death. Chalk that up to coincidence, eh? Things had been said, and done, by both, that had strained their love for one another. A sort of uneasy reconciliation had been achieved, but nothing was the same. We ate as a family because of my visits. They spoke when I was around because neither wanted to sadden me. They had both come with me to the derby, and it was the first time in years that I'd seen both of them just fucking let go and return to a better time. I'm sure he was thinking of that very same thing, still numb from his own ordeal, wondering how fair it was that he'd never have a chance to embrace his younger brother once more time.
I'm still waiting for the coroner's report. To his doctors, my father was something of a medical miracle. They'd tell him his liver was in awful shape; he'd cut all vices for 6-7 months just to have them marvel at his recuperative, almost regenerative, abilities. When my uncle found him, he was dressed to kill, on his kness, fists clenched, his forehead on the floor. My uncle said his face was peaceful, much like he was in his coffin when I saw him last. I like to think that's true.
Neither Italy nor Germany's going to happen now. I'm going back to my old squadron, and I'll be once more operational. I really hope I get deployed sometime soon because I really don't want to sort through what all this means for me right now.
Rest in peace, dad. I love you.
Well, that's not exactly 100% accurate. I also go there to see the half of my family that still resides there, and most specifically my father--who I have only seen for a bit of a time since my parents divorced.
Four-five days after leaving Greece this time around, and the morning after a nice party (drinking, dancing, eating, and farewelling friends for about about 14 or so hours), I got a call from one of my favorite uncles, also my father's truest friend and benefactor. He called me to tell me that he found my father dead.
My father and I shared kind of a complicated relationship. While I have always loved him uncompromisingly, only in the last 4-5 years have we been able to accept each others' mutual courses in life. To his constant worry and distress I have pursued a military career that has placed me in locales and situations he'd rather I never dealt with. On his end, he has refused to put down the bottle that cost him his family and peace of mind, among other things.
For as long as I'd known him, my father was a sort of alcoholic Peter Pan. Most addicts have what they'd call a reason, or at least an excuse, for their vice; I believe that years ago my father saw in alcohol a way to continue being young in the face of things that I guess scared him. My dad had been a wheeler and dealer who had visited every continent save Antarctica, a living, breathing exemplar of what I saw as being "rock-and-roll." Things like becoming a family man without having the grounding and wisdom of his own father were probably alien to him. Unable to reconcile with his lifestyle choices, my mother took as away and we came to the States. It wasn't until several years later that I noticed a change in my dad. Where once he drank out of some need to feel like life was still a party, I started noticing that he drank because he simply had nothing else in his life.
Penthouse apartment across the Acropolis? Empty and full of so many reminders of the people that once filled it, who made it worth being in.
Beautiful, rich girlfriend in Myconos? Painful reminder that it's too late to play at getting married again.
Friends? Dead, or moved on with their families.
I did what I could to take away the sadness my dad was mired in. I called him once or twice a week, and we tried to pretend like we didn't have thousands of miles and months to go between us. I saw him as often as I could, but it broke my heart knowing that my inevitable departure made him hurt more than seeing me arrive gave him joy. Little by little, though, I started understanding that he was trying to set himself up for a change.
It took a while, but we made a covenant. I'd go for a European assignment, and my dad would try for a positive change in his life. During the New Years' that just went by, we toasted my anticipated move to either Italy or Germany (we both preferred the former of the two) and capped it all off with an amazing derby between our favorite football team and their hated rivals. We hadn't lived moments like that since I was single digits years old. And I guess we never will again.
Seeing his brother, who is also my Godfather, at the funeral broke my heart. The man had a stroke the same day his brother died, but he knew nothing of the latter's death. Chalk that up to coincidence, eh? Things had been said, and done, by both, that had strained their love for one another. A sort of uneasy reconciliation had been achieved, but nothing was the same. We ate as a family because of my visits. They spoke when I was around because neither wanted to sadden me. They had both come with me to the derby, and it was the first time in years that I'd seen both of them just fucking let go and return to a better time. I'm sure he was thinking of that very same thing, still numb from his own ordeal, wondering how fair it was that he'd never have a chance to embrace his younger brother once more time.
I'm still waiting for the coroner's report. To his doctors, my father was something of a medical miracle. They'd tell him his liver was in awful shape; he'd cut all vices for 6-7 months just to have them marvel at his recuperative, almost regenerative, abilities. When my uncle found him, he was dressed to kill, on his kness, fists clenched, his forehead on the floor. My uncle said his face was peaceful, much like he was in his coffin when I saw him last. I like to think that's true.
Neither Italy nor Germany's going to happen now. I'm going back to my old squadron, and I'll be once more operational. I really hope I get deployed sometime soon because I really don't want to sort through what all this means for me right now.
Rest in peace, dad. I love you.
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Yeah, things are going well out here. Though it's pretty damn frustrating living on a college campus surrounded by tons of hot Koreans and not being able to date any of them because i work for the Uni.