Father’s Day Blues

Father’s Day sad memories.

Father’s Day is rough on fathers who have lost children. What’s the old saying? — No parent should ever have to bury a child.

This guy I know tells me his sister-in-law, the wife of his brother who died recently, invited him down to her place for a barbecue celebration of Father’s Day, along with her sons, the eldest of whom has three daughters and several grandchildren, and her other son who has his own son.

It was a kind offer — his sister-in-law didn’t want him to be alone, but this guy I know declined the invitation. He said he wouldn’t be the best of company on Father’s Day, since his only son killed himself at the age of twenty-three.

Adding to the emotional burden, as fate would have it, Sunday June 21 is the year-and-a-half anniversary of the death of his wife. He has never gotten over her death and he never will. She was his last hope in life. She got him through the death of his son and stood by him through thirty years of their tumultuous marriage. He couldn’t imagine anyone else doing that. Without her by his side, he said he would likely be dead himself.

Master of your own fate

Now, with his wife gone, suicide becomes an option. It now runs in the family, you might say, he said sardonically. Better than getting sick and going through chemo or being hooked up to machines in a hospital, he added. Master of your own destiny and all that stuff.

He said he’s working his way up to it. It takes planning, he said, it’s not something you rush into. You can rush into it, but this guy I know is a methodical guy, he wants to leave instructions on how to dispose of his property, find a good home for his cat, pick the right day and the best means to do it, most likely a gun.

Okay, whatever you say, this guy I know.

On the other hand, I suggested, tiring of the tedious dirge (it’s not like I hadn’t heard it before), you could go to your sister-in-law’s place and amuse everybody with your sardonic jokes.

Hmmm, he said, thoughtfully.


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All Souls Day

WEDNESDAY, 10:52 P.M.

The father thought about Ward 3C, the last place he had seen his son alive before the boy’s suicide.

His thoughts turned to the time his watch — an expensive gold Seiko his second wife had given him a few months earlier — stopped at 10:52 p.m. on Wednesday, November 2.

It was the day after Will’s funeral. His father was in a hotel room in Toronto, yelling in his Xanax and beer bewilderment that he was going to “get” the psychiatrist who had released Will from Ward 3C, perhaps before he should have.

In a black notebook in which he’d been keeping a record of past events the father angrily wrote: AINSLEY! THURSDAY! Apparently to confront the psychiatrist the next day and — do what? Threaten him? Kill him?

And that’s when the sweep second hand on his Seiko stopped dead. The batteries were supposed to last up to four years — he had been guaranteed this — and yet they gave out at that precise moment. Why then, at that very second?

The father considered the possibility that Will or Will’s spirit had stopped the watch because of what he had been yelling about the psychiatrist, knowing, as Will now possibly did, that he was on the wrong track, that it wasn’t Ainsley’s fault, or anyone’s fault.

The next day the father put the question to his ex-wife. She was a Catholic and had a belief that he envied. “Do you think Will stopped the watch because I was threatening to do something to the psychiatrist?”

“That’s possible,” she said. “But more likely, 10:52 p.m. Wednesday was the moment Will ascended to Heaven.”

The father was about as irreligious as you could get, but he liked the way his ex-wife’s mind worked.

“That was All Souls Day,” she said, “when Christians pray for the souls who are being purified in purgatory so they may enter Heaven.” The funeral had been held the day before, so it made sense, even to a pagan.

The father never got his watch fixed. It was a valuable clue, a historical artifact. He’d never tamper with stuff like that. It was found in his apartment after his own death, still frozen at 10:52.


Excerpted from original story -> https://billmichelmore.com/a-place-to-heal/


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The afterlife: Riding the wave

One man’s incredible communication with his dead son

The man is alone in bed when his cell phone rings. He flips it open. “Don’t freak out,” a voice says, “I’ll explain.”

Good advice from the get-go because the man thinks he is going mad. He sits upright in bed. His heart suddenly goes into overdrive. It’s his son’s voice on the phone. His son died eighteen months earlier at the age of twenty-three.

The man is going into a state of shock. His heart races. His face feels like it’s on fire. He’s either having a panic attack or a heart attack.

“Will?! This can’t be happening! Who the hell is this? Is this a gag?” And then more to himself: “I must be going insane.”

”You’re not going insane,” his son’s voice says. “Just listen to me, please, I’ll explain.”

“You died, I was there, you’re dead.”

”Yes — and no. Listen to me now.”

”Where the hell are you?”

”Certainly not in hell.” His son rapidly explains that he is using an undiscovered wave in the electromagnetic spectrum to tap into his father’s phone.

“This is madness—“ his father starts to say.

“Dad, please, I don’t know how long I can keep this connection. Let me say this as fast as I can. As to where I am, that’s a difficult question. I’m not even sure myself. I call it a state of wave-being—“

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me get this out. Think of waves in the electromagnetic spectrum. Over the years, humans have managed to capture some of the invisible waves — radio and television waves, microwaves, ultraviolet, x-rays, gamma rays, but there are immeasurably more out here that humans can’t see or catch. I’m one of those waves. Call it yet another undiscovered wave.”

“Jesus Christ,” his father manages to say.

“No Jesus Christ so far,” his son replies with a little laugh. “No sign of anything like that, just an incredible cerebral sensation of being part of the universe. Like a dream. I can see it all…“

Sudden static on the line. “Will,” his father says, “are you still there?”

”Barely,” his son’s voice crackles back. “Losing this connection. Dad, you remember my favorite song in those last days?”

”I’ll never forget — ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ Blue Oyster Cult.”

Static increases. “Dad, real quick, I’ve got to tell you. We will be together, riding this wave.”

Static gets worse. “Will?”

”Losing it. Dad, one last thing.”

”Yes?”

”Don’t fear the reaper.”

Line goes dead. “Will? Will, are you still there? Have I lost you? Hello? Will?”

The man keeps the phone pressed to his ear and listens to the silence.


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