Who Farted?

My father and I were very close in the last few years of his life. Yes, I had all kinds of illnesses and anxiety attacks because of it, but I didn't understand. NOT AT ALL. Though some parts of me freaked out because of it, some parts of me sought him out for comfort and shelter because I didn't just divide myself, I divided HIM, too. What's good for the goose and all that, right? Anyhoo, for no apparent reason (his upcoming birthday?), I thought of one of the funniest later memories of him after he became very ill.

My father wore a colostomy bag by that time, because the lower part of his colon had to be surgically bypassed in order for his digestive system to continue functioning. For those who don't know, a colostomy bag is an actual 'bag' made of plastic and waste collects in it on the outside of the body when a person is prevented from excreting normally. And now for the not-so-serious part. My father and I shared a raunchy sense of humor. Though I did not find any humor in most of the (sexual) things that tickled his twisted funny bone (and we often fought over such 'jokes'), bathroom humor was fair game. Cause everybody shits, even if if it's in a colostomy bag, ya know what I'm sayin'? Anyhow, some dumb family member (can't remember who) trusted yours truly to take the poor old dude to the doctor for a check-in.

You know how doctors run so behind schedule sometimes and how a 2:00 appointment, for which you arrive early, can turn into finally being seen at 4:00? Well -- one of the few things my father and I had in common (besides the potty humor) was a deep desire for punctuality. And so, by the time the doctor was very, very late and my father's colostomy bag was painfully filled with noxious gasses while we waited and waited in the exam room... let's just say the man needed some relief and was too cramped up to get up and go outside. Yeah, let's say that. To be honest, he did need relief, but I egged him on. :-) And he did it. As the two of us laughed until tears rolled down our faces with the thought of the potential horror about to be unleashed (he was still a fan of burgers and chili, even while so ill), he did the unthinkable (unthinkable to everyone but us). He opened the bag right there and let the gasses out. Which made us cry harder (not just because we were laughing harder, but because it was burning our eyes). By the time we heard nurses out in the hallway saying VERY amusing things about the deadly and mysterious smell, we were pretty much on the floor gasping from laughter (and asphyxiation). Seriously. We were fucking CRYING and still trying to be quiet so the mystery in the hallway could last just a tiny bit longer for our amusement purposes.

Thankfully, when it was all over, we took the doctor's report to a more responsible adult in deference to the father's continued treatment. And then Daddy and I went to his house, watched the history channel, ate donuts and laughed our asses off. In all reality, I think that evening and night was about some of the children clinging to their Daddy while a merciful protector lurked to care for the children and to care for him, too. I don't remember how the night ended, but I suspect it was one of those nights when I fell asleep on my father's couch with my head in his lap while I silently begged him to love me and to take back all the bad stuff that I couldn't even remember right then. And to please, PLEASE -- just stay alive and love me. Please just be nice. I will do anything for you, even laugh at farts in a graveyard when I'm scared, please just be nice. Please be nice and don't hurt me ever again.

Weird, funny, sad, sick. I dunno. It's just what fell out of my head and hit the pavement. And all these years later, I STILL laughed until I cried just in thinking about our little foray to the doctor's office. And I'm not sure what that means. But I DO have pain. My father was a real bastard. He didn't hate me and send me away like the mother, but he did set me up for a world of shit with his twisted love and I still hurt because of it. Sometimes I wonder if the pain will ever end. But I DID love him. I did. Sometimes I think he really loved me , too, and it's just that he was so broken, so twisted, that he couldn't love me in the way I'm sure he would have wished to if he had been better off. I wished and wished, I prayed and prayed, but he still died. And I did exactly what he would have wanted me to do. I carried his ashes out of the church when his muscle-bound son collapsed under the weight of his own grief. I caught Daddy's urn when my poor brother dropped it. I was the 'last man standing' that day. I did what Daddy taught me how to do. I carried his weight and just kept walking and never let my knees buckle under me. Not until after his urn was laid to rest on the mantle above the mother's fireplace and the hope of what could have been was gone forever as he was so evidently dead. Gone. Daddy was just suddenly gone and I felt like I was face-down on a rock, hurtling through empty space. No ground, no air, no anything. Sometimes I still feel like that.