I Am…

I stood alone on one side of the room. It was a big room, built to look like a cabin. It was the activity room, where everyone would meet and play games. It was the second night of a retreat I was on with my youth group. As I walked along the wall, my youth pastor suddenly called out to me. That seemed odd. Why would he need me? I was just picking on that Craig kid, maybe I was in trouble? I curiously made my over. He then led me out of the room, along with one of the other adult helpers. He turned to me, concern on his face. I was the more bewildered. What was going on?

I am King Osiris, sitting at his feast, unaware of the trick Seth has set for me. Unaware that I was about to be trapped, and my body scattered all over the Nile.

“Gideon, we just got a phone call. Your dad is in the ICU.”

I sat there, confused. I was unable to fully comprehend what that meant. I knew my dad was going into surgery that day, but my parents both said it would be pretty routine. Nothing to worry about. I wasn’t even entirely sure what ICU meant. I knew it was a part of the hospital, so I wasn’t shocked to hear it. I slowly nodded and said, “I know,” without actually knowing. Whatever else was said may as well have been some foreign language. As I started to piece together the situation and understand that something wasn’t quite right, all sound seemed to turn white. There was simply a rushing sound, like a raging river or a jet engine firing up. The next words to come in clear explained I would be driven back down to the hospital to be with my family.

I sat in the car next to Kelby, one of the adults that helped out with the youth groups. He was in his early 30s, tall and dirty blond. He and I had formed a good relationship, where I was closer with him than a lot of the kids my own age in the group. He was a nice guy, caring and patient. At this moment, he was quiet. I was quieter. He drove quickly, flying down the winding mountain road, quickly flashing off his brights as other cars approached. He spoke, as far as I can remember, only once, telling me to let him know if his driving was too fast. Any other time it probably would be. I’m not a big fan of mountain driving, or riding. But tonight, I didn’t mind. I barely even noticed. All I saw was rushing trees and rocks. I barely even comprehended that those oncoming then passing lights were attached to cars, driven by people. I had no idea what was going on around me.

I am Odysseus, lost at sea, hundreds of miles from home. My only purpose now is to traverse my way home, to get back to my family and loved ones. But what would it be like when I got there? Would it be the same at all?

The trip was surprisingly short. Maybe I was too preoccupied to pay attention to how long it actually took. Maybe I was just dreading what awaited me. You know when you’re really not looking forward to something, like a test or a dentist appointment, and for some reason time seems to fly by? Whatever the reason, we were at the hospital before I knew it. The first people I saw were family friends. I didn’t know them very well, I’d just met them a few times at gatherings. There were sad, concerned smiles exchanged until I was led into the room. There was my family, my two sisters, my brother, and my mom. My mom quickly swooped over, hugging me close. My sisters stood off to the side, not wanting to get too near. My brother sat directly next to my father, his head hung down, holding his hand.

My dad.

He could’ve been asleep. He was just lying there on the bed, his eyes closed, peaceful. The only thing that ruined the image of him being asleep were the tubes and wires hooked up to him. There was no way to tell he wasn’t himself, my dad, Lee Holbrook. At any minute, he could wake up. He could crack one of his corny dad-jokes, or pick up the bass and play along with some old country song, or go tick away at the keyboard of his computer. My dad worked for a programming company. Every day, he worked with computers, but he still had that chicken-pecking style of typing. He would only use his pointer fingers, roving them over the board until they found the letter or number he needed.

I have no idea how long I was there before the doctor came in. I don’t know what he said. I don’t know what was discussed between my mom and the doctor, or anyone in my family. All I know is that at some point, I knew things were bad. I don’t know if it was something someone said, or some dawning realization, but I just knew something wasn’t right. And that it would never truly be right again.

I am Gilgamesh, having just suffered the loss of Enkidu. What’s left for me to do but wander the countryside, picking fights and lamenting my loss? How could I carry on after suffering such a great loss?

I left the hospital. What time was it? What day was it? I had no idea. It may have been dark, it may have been light. It didn’t matter. Once it was decided there was nothing they could do, once my mom had finally convinced us that here was nothing they could do, and once we had finally all accepted there was nothing they could do, there was nothing we could do. So we cried. We hugged each other. We looked at our dad, grabbed his hand, squeezed it tight. We said our goodbyes. Could he hear us? Who knows. We told ourselves he could. It made us feel better, and right then we needed to feel better. The only thing in the world we needed was to feel better.

I needed to feel better.

I needed to know things were going to be okay. Not just told, but actually know. I needed some proof that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. That the world wasn’t just a sad place. That there was some point to something; anything.

I remember, before we left, I was talking to my neighbor; my sister Abby’s best friend, Mariel. She was my sister’s age, three years older than me, and had lost her dad just a month before. It was tragic, but it was morbidly appropriate. Mariel and Abby did everything together. Not just what you’d expect when you hear the words “teenage”, “girls”, and “best friends” in the same sentence. They got sick at the same time. They got dumped by their boyfriends on the same day. They even both sprained their right knees on the same skiing trip. And now, by chance or by sick, twisted cosmic humor, they had lost their fathers within a month of each other. The dark part of me, the part that loves gallows humor, thinks this is a good joke. Abby and Mariel never will, and if I was in their specific position, I’d certainly be less inclined.

Mariel and I talked briefly. We were in the waiting room. Or the hallway. Or wherever we were. She tried to comfort me. Good on her for trying. That’s all anyone can do in a situation like that. Try. How could she fix it? How could she possibly make it better? She couldn’t. Point blank, there was nothing she could do. But she could try. Problem is, if the other person doesn’t want to try, there’s not much good in trying yourself.

“He’s in a better place, now,” she says, tears in her eyes. I don’t know if she believed what she was saying, or even understood it, but she said it. And she sincerely thought it would help.

“SCREW YOU!” I thought. Don’t worry, I wasn’t screaming at someone who was just trying to comfort me, in the middle of a hospital, where other people were also struggling and mourning.

Other people. Have you ever been in a hospital, fearing or (worse) waiting for the worst? You have this moment of disconnect. Disconnect from everything. And everyone. You forget that this small room is just one of many, in just one wing, on one floor. There are dozens, hundreds of other people there. Some have been there for a few minutes, some for months. We weren’t the only people there visiting a loved one, and my father wasn’t the only in there suffering. Other people were there. Other people were hurting. Other people were mourning. Each were doing it in their own way, through their own devices, and with their own methods. Their pain didn’t lessen mine; my pain didn’t lessen theirs.

I simply thought that rather vulgar phrase. It ran across my mind with enough force and venom that I was worried she may have still heard it even though I had only thought it. My dad wasn’t in a better place. This was the best place for him. He had a wife and children. He had a dog. Poor Angus, how would he react? How could he rationalize what happened? He was just a dog. He and my dad were super close. Angus loved my dad. They would always spend time together, curled up on the couch watching TV. Angus didn’t mind what my dad watched. It could be Austin City Limits, Diagnosis, Murder reruns, or whatever shows Nickelodeon or ABC were running for their evening blocks. Angus was there right next to my dad. Or he was lying under the brown armchair that my dad occupied. That was dad’s chair, that was Angus’s spot under it. How could my dad possibly be in a better place than that?

He was leaving behind so much. Besides his family, there were his friends. He played bass in the worship band on Sundays at church. Who would play bass now? He was in cover bands with other dads who just wanted to play music. How could they keep playing? He had so many projects unfinished, so many books unread, so many moments unlived.

I left the hospital. I mentioned that, but this time I really did. I went home. I walked into my room. I sat on my bed. I did these things pretty often. But there was something different about this time. Everything was in the same place, everything looked the same, smelled the same, was the same. However, nothing was the same. It was strange. Almost like an out of body experience. I floated next to a kid, lost and confused, crushed by reality and what the world has in store for us. He looked oddly stoic. It seemed like he didn’t understand what just happened to him. Why wasn’t he sad? Why wasn’t he angry? Why wasn’t he throwing things? Breaking things? Cursing God and everyone else?

Why did this have to happen? I was only twelve. At that age, you barely know yourself. There was no way I could truly grasp what the ramifications could be. What would it be like for a child to grow up without a father? Twelve years old, a lot happens then, and they don’t really stop for a long time. These are things a boy needs a dad for, to walk him through it and explain what it means to be a man.

I stayed stoic. I stayed quiet. I didn’t do much the next day, and I certainly didn’t talk to anybody. I just stayed in my room, staring at nothing. I had heard that if you stare long enough into the void, the void stares back. Maybe the void had the answers; no one else seemed to. When I finally did something, it was just to take a shower.

I stood in the stream, the hot water pouring over me. I felt it. I didn’t feel much, but I felt the hot water. Then, it happened. My mind wandered; it pored over the previous twenty-four hours, reliving the moments, and finally resting on the simple fact: My father was gone. Forever.

I broke down. There was no way to tell tears from shower water. It was all just water pouring down the drain, but I cried. I cried and cried. I wailed and howled and bawled. I let go of all restraint, of all balance, of all dignity. I just cried like a baby. Yes, certainly a cliché, but not just an overused term. I cried just like a baby would. No concern for who may hear me and how they may view it, I just cried. My dad was dead. Mortality had won.

I am Thor, out-wrestled by the old woman Elli, mortality incarnate. I can wrestle with all my might, which is more than any mortal or god, but it doesn’t matter. I can fight better than any of her opponents ever have. I can be driven only to one knee, rather than pinned as is usually the case. I will never win. Elli cannot be beaten.

From there, I drifted. Everyone was really nice. They kept stopping by, bringing food and gifts. More than a few people brought boxes of tissues. With lotion. The regular kind can really wear on your nose after a while. Kids who picked on me at school were suddenly nice to me. I actually became friends with some. Teachers were forgiving and didn’t expect me to catch up on what I had missed. Everyone just let us do what we needed to do, until we were ready to return to normal, everyday life.

Yeah, normal, everyday life. That was possible.

The services were nice. We had a musical memorial for my dad at our church. I don’t remember much. I remember we sang “One Tin Soldier” and “The Turkey Song”, a song unexplainedly in a song book from one of the churches we used to go to. I also remember, just before the service started, everyone was seated and quietly waiting. Then, we walked in. The whole family, walking single-file up the aisles to the very front. Obviously focus was going to be put on us, but did we really need to make such a scene?

The funeral was simple. I gave a eulogy and did a musical number. My dad was a musician and always encouraged me playing music, so I wanted to play him a song. He also supported and encouraged my love of writing, so I wanted to write him something. People seemed to like it. I liked it. I usually don’t try to be conceited with my works, but in this instance, I was more concerned about if I liked it than others. Everyone could’ve hated what I said and played, but I liked it. And if I liked it, I knew my dad would.

I am Osiris, made whole and reclaiming his throne. I am Odysseus, returning home to his family. I am Gilgamesh, having learned my lesson and returning to Uruk. I am Thor, leaving Utgard having found victory in my defeat.

Maybe life wasn’t going to be the same. Maybe growing up was going to be harder than it should be. Maybe I would miss out on major life points that only a father can oversee. But I had my family. I had my loving, hardworking mom. I had my brother, ready to step in and assume the role. I had my sisters who, while very different, each effected me in immense and individual ways. I wasn’t lost, I wasn’t hopeless. I was just me. I strive to be me, and I strive to be what my dad wants me to be. I may never know what that actually is, but I have an idea.

I have followed in my dad’s footsteps. I played bass in the church band for a bit. I’m even playing in his cover bands he was in. My father may be gone, but he’s always a part of me and my life. I suffered a wound that will never heal, and no one expects it to heal, not even myself.

But my father left enough of an impression on me to not slip. To not let the bad times keep me down.

I am what I am because of my father. I will be what I will be because of me.

Originally published at https://gideonswritings.blogspot.com on November 19, 2020.