By Mark David Blum, Esq

What a joke was played upon me. Not just me; two of my sisters went down in flames with me. All of us made to be patsies and the butts of some psychotic joke being played by my father.

Word got to his three children that doctors had given him two weeks to live. Ten days into that death watch, my sister and step sister drop everything, hop a plane and head off to see a man in the last hours of life. In case you have never seen such a site; the skin is yellow, breathing is labored and sounds like snoring, and the patient is half conscious and not very aware. In addition to my own mourning and roller coaster of feelings, I worried about the sight that was going to await the arrival of my sister. Almost … I almost fell for it and went to meet up with her to be there for her as she had a closer relationship with him than did I.

Then I find out that he is home, pigging out, drinking and partying, and told his tale of the last of days so that his current family (wife #8) could see how fast his children would come running if he called. Two thirds is not so bad. He did go out of his way to not apologize, not resolve, nor bring to closure any issue my sisters dragged across the country. He did promise them his “legacy”, whatever that is, will go to strangers and not family. I was surprised to learn he had anybody around him that he still called family.

As for me, I was just stunned when I read my sister’s email last night. Today, came closure.

A man supposedly in his last days is not wearing leather, drinking whiskey, and sucking a butt. I don’t fault him for doing so. But, holy crap Batman, to get the word out that you have two weeks left to live just so you can fawn upon yourself that your children will come to see you? I went through ten very hard and intense days; reliving past experiences and reminding myself why I did not want to drive to Ohio.

This morning, I awoke and realized that hey, why waste a good investment of time and energy. I spent the last ten days mourning my father’s imminent death. Why consider it wasted time. He is dead and soon to be buried and that’s that. Let his legacy build his pyre.

In one of his last official acts on this earth, my father stuck his finger right into my sister’s eye. I can only imagine how her heart bled all the way to Cleveland. When she came to his house to find a party in play, and how he refused her any substantive resolution or closure, I know too how her heart suddenly got hard and cold as ice on the flight home. It is how I feel today. After that email, I just froze over and went numb. At one level, it was a relief because I can now focus again on my own life. On another level, that clock has stopped ticking. Yet, in the end, mourning is a process and an interrupted process of mourning is a very hard stop. Normal people rejoice in their father’s newfound health. To my sisters and I, it is a major fuck in the ass. As I say to people who stare at me dumbfounded … “welcome to my world.”

I forgot to ask my sister if airlines do indeed give funeral discounts. Maybe I can use his funeral as an excuse for a quick cheap flight to CA.

Now, in the end, the man will indeed die alone. No family will mourn his passing. His grave will go forgotten and none will ever pay a visit. I have no idea why he is not being buried with his own family, parents and siblings, and instead is going into the ground next to wife #7. So much fun for wife #8 to have to package him up and ship him off to California. When they stick him in the ground, I wont be there. When he dies, I wont be there.

He was not there for me when I cried. Both as a child longing for a father and as an adult this past week mourning the person who harmed me the most in my life and who hates my very existence. I got my closure and have nothing more to say.

I have nothing further to write on this subject. The next time I want to talk about it is when I see him in hell -- (which, by all accounts, will be a breeze compared to a lifetime as that man's son).