Poor Dad is Dead

Just found out my father died seven months ago in London and his wife didn't bother to let us know. I know ! Horrible isn't it? I'm numb, which happens to me when I'm too angry to handle it all at once, or too anything really. Others are speaking for me though: whaaat? how could anyone be so cruel? I can't imagine where her mind must be to do such a thing? The focus mostly on the wicked step mother, which technically she is. Kinder people have suggested forgiveness for she knows not what she did, or excuses due to possible dementia or grief on her part.
I'm just trying to come to grips with the loss part. It's easy to get to the mad part, and I don't want to go the the sad place, but that's where I need to be.
But the tears flowed when someone asked me to describe one fond memory of him: he used to bring us breakfast in bed on a tray on Sundays around noon when my sister and I were teens and sleeping late. I wondered at the time why he did it because it was so unusual for him to do anything for anyone else. Another memory, affectionate and odd: when we went to lunch a few years ago and I ordered for us both, telling the waiter I'd have this and my father would have that. He got teary eyed, telling me that he was very touched by my telling the waiting that "my father will have..." somehow that phrase punctured whatever armour he wore around his heart.
My cousin "Egg" tells me that my father loved me very much, thought the world of me. She also knew him as self-centered, which he was and which I don't really want to probe, as it meant many painful experiences, not worth reviewing here.
So last night when I found out via a friends email, when she discovered the news via my father's neighbour, I sent emails to family, friends and acquaintances, for the sake of Old Lang Syne, and to know that there are people in the world who are not cruel, who don't wish me harm and who have responded to the news with sadness and shock and loving concern.

There are some events in life which one shouldn't suffer alone, births and deaths are two. I've been through both, alone and not alone. Alone was unspeakably painful. This time, the pain is speakable and I claim it for a wee while. Tears have flowed only when talking about the fond memories, and I'm glad for that. I don't want bitterness to creep in, and actually feel none.

Thanks Dad for your gifts of music, humour, wit, super sensitivity (not sure about this one) powers of observation, loving me the best you could, for finding a woman who loved you enough to take care of you at the end, doing grunt work I couldn't provide or share. May your spirit rise high and free. Thank you for getting a posthumous message through to me to google you and snap up the one available copy of your vinyl lp David Mack's New Directions for Jazz Orchestra. I sent you a cd of this with your birthday card this year for my friend Barbara to deliver by hand as you weren't receiving other gifts or mail since you became bedridden. I had suspicions that letters and gifts from America were being diverted somehow, but chose to blame the erratic postal service instead of anyone close to you, telling myself to be generous kind and loving in my thoughts and deeds. Well screw that idea for today at least.

I will regret forever that we did not have a proper goodbye. Thanks for the genes, good bad and ugly, thanks for all of it and blessings on your journey old man. I loved you dearly.