Unexpressed Love

"Hi, Jey, what's up?" That's the last thing you said to me. Anything else after that couldn't count because it was no longer you. The days I would visit you in silence, just there waiting for a doctor to tell me anything new. I was new, newly confused, newly responsible, and Newly a voice. Your voice, I didn't know what I was doing. One moment, I was twenty-six. The next, I was spending my days in a hospital room. Sifting through years of paperwork and medical records. Trying to understand. You weren't able to speak much, and honestly, I couldn't tell if it was a blessing or a curse. Maybe we could have worked on our relationship with what little time we had.

When I think of you, I just feel rage, this fevering anger that consumes me.  Regardless of what happened between us, the fact that you were sick all this time and didn't say anything is unforgivable. You left a mess that no broom or dustpan could clean up. How dare you die, how dare you die on us, on me, how dare you die without us having the big fight. You're a coward; you're a fucking coward. You got sick. And your “faggot” son had to take care of you in your final days.  You were never proud of me, and it's something I have always known. No matter how often I tried to lie to myself, I knew the truth: you wanted the athletic stereotypical son, a replica of yourself. That's probably why we clashed; you wanted someone you could mold into your image, but I wasn't malleable. Now that you are gone, you can say it out loud: I'm not the son you wanted. Well, I didn't want a father who got cancer and died.

I didn't visit you on my birthday, and it still haunts me, even now that I am writing this. I know It shouldn't, I do, but I feel so guilty and ashamed for not coming; everyone says I shouldn't. "Dealing with a sick person, you need to take care of yourself too." Maybe they are right. Two years have passed since your death, and we hadn't spoken for two years before that—all that time wasted being trivial and petty. And I know it's not all your fault you tried to call; I was too stubborn, but that doesn't mean you should have stopped trying. I didn't try to meet you halfway while I was off galavanting; you were suffering alone for so long, and I closed my eyes and left you to die alone. Maybe it's your karma for all the lies and broken promises, all the events you missed because you were too busy. But I shouldn't say that because: "You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

In the past two years, you've been showing up in pieces. In small, fleeting memories that I try to hold onto, but I know that one day, they will inevitably disappear. After you died, I realized we had never had pictures together. I only started taking them when you were bald and frail, hooked up to cords and machines. Again, I don't know why I am writing this unpolished, full of frustration and regret. On one hand, I want to scream and punch you for letting all that wasted time pass. I want to scream: "Fuck you for leaving us like this, for not coming to my graduation, for making me fatherless, for not giving me time to prepare, and fuck you for getting sick.

I feel horrible because even despite my rage in the same breath, I just want you to hold me despite everything; I just want a dad again; I just want a chance to mend what was broken. I just want to talk things through for real; this time, I promise I will be more receptive.

I just want to be held and hear you say everything will be fine. I wish I could take back every argument, fight, and "I hate you," but it doesn't work that way.

You burnt bridges from everyone around you, but my pathetic, sadistic nature couldn't turn my back even after it came crashing down. I guess that's something I need to work on… For your final breaths, I wasn't there. It was 1:13 am when they called. They said I should come now, it's time. I couldn't be there alone, so I waited for the second call on my kitchen floor alone. At 2:08 am, 12 days after my birthday, you died. Cold, alone, and in pain. As I write this, tears fall because I am finally confronted with the truth that I am a bad son for having you die alone when I was only a 20-minute Uber ride away. You weren't the best dad, and you did and said things you shouldn't, but you did not deserve that.

I had you cremated, knowing it wasn't what you would have wanted. But it was a matter of convenience and affordability. Even writing that down makes it hard to breathe. I cheaped out on my dead father—what kind of person does that?

I still have your ashes in the back of my closet, next to the puzzles collecting dust. I don't know what to do with you. Probably should buy an urn. Maybe one day I will. 

I hate that when you died, I felt relieved. Seeing you crippled, dirty, and unable to speak in the hospital bed was just too much for me; I tried to tell myself the lie that we all say "that you're in a better place now. But the reality is that I don't know where you are; none of us know, and it is a harsh reality that we try to avoid.  

You wouldn't like what I've become, which is not much of a surprise because you never did. I think of how long I cared about your opinions and approval until I no longer did. And while that did provide some semblance of comfort, in the end, everyone just wants to feel accepted. Your death made me realize that I had no idea who you were. I know nothing about you, your likes and dislikes. I remember you used to play that Abba album in the car when I was young, so I played it at your funeral. You always wore that pink shirt to church, so that's what you wore for the cremation. I used to hate it when people would say that I'm just like you or that we look alike; I never saw it. Now that I'm older, I'm not sure if it's grief or if I'm just growing into your features, but I'm starting to see it. 

Losing a parent is like losing a leg. You will continue living but never walk the same way again. The most pathetic part is that I still look for you. In every crowd, every passerby, there is still an ounce of hope that you will be there screaming "Uncle Joe," I imagine you calling out, arms open wide, ready to embrace me. I still never learned why you called me that, and now I never will. I wish I had appreciated you more while you were here. Now, every milestone reminds me of your absence. I regret not cherishing you enough when you were still alive. As I celebrate each new milestone, I no longer have to search the crowds for you—you really won't be there. Damn it, I hate that you're not here. God, fuck you for not being here.

I hate that I'm conflicted because I know that you went through it all alone. In those final lucid days, you chose me, the son you hadn't spoken to in two years, to make your last decisions. Why would you do that? Was this some sort of punishment?

Did you know I was going to be the one who would tell your siblings? They didn't even know you were sick.  I had to be the one to hear your mother scream your name as I told her I could still hear it two years later. Did you not think of that? Is that what you wanted? It shouldn't have been me.

I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe you already know, and it's something I will just have to learn on my own. But how can I learn it without you being here to teach me? I'm sorry I wasn't the son you wanted.