I thought I was done writing...I was wrong. One more thing I need to get off my chest. I've spoken with a select few people about this over the years, but not very many. I never dealt with it properly when it happened, and to this day I still haven't. I know writing about it probably won't help a whole hell of a lot, but maybe this is the catalyst that will help me finally get started on the path to dealing with this in a positive manner, if that's possible. Time will tell, I guess.
When my father passed away in March of 1998, I was still drinking very heavily. I was a sloppy, disgusting mess and became basically unrecognizable to most people who knew me. Somehow, the day of the funeral, I managed to pull myself together long enough to make myself presentable in front of family and friends. I thought I was being so slick and doing such a good job hiding it. Now that I think about it after I've been sober for some time...they knew. They all knew.
The events of this day are a blur for me now...some are solid memories, some are only hearsay in my own mind due to the emotional state of complete and utter breakdown I was in at the time.
It was very cold that day, if I remember right...bitter cold. The wind stung my eyes and I had a hard time keeping them open as I walked from the car to the mausoleum. I don't even remember who I rode with that day, to be honest. It was all kind of a blur. Walking into the mausoleum, there were people in there gathered around my father's casket and all I could do was look at them in a daze, not really sure what to expect. This would be the most emotional funeral I had ever attended...I was scared to death inside, and it showed. I made no attempt to hide my emotions, just like everyone else in the room. My relatives were there, close friends of the family...they all felt the same thing. Maybe not exactly the same thing, but you know what I mean.
The service began and I went numb inside, almost instantly. I don't remember much of what the priest said, but I know it was good things about my dad and some of the good things he had done in his life. My dad was the coolest guy I ever knew...he knew everything there was to know about everything and he was my hero...he still is to this day. He taught me how to drive a stick shift, how to shoot a gun...and who knows how many other things a boy needs to learn from his dad.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gentleman with the bugle standing there...I knew why he was there and I knew it was coming but I had no idea how it would affect me, emotionally and physically. When the music started...I lost all control and at that point I was on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably on my hands and knees. That was the longest playing of Taps I had ever heard in my entire life...no exceptions. I didn't think it would ever end, nor did I think I would be able to stand up when it was over.
When the man finished, I remember some people helping me to my feet but I don't remember who they were, and shortly afterwards, I heard the sound of a 21-gun salute outside. Maybe that happened before Taps...I honestly don't remember. Each shot that was fired hit me right in the heart...a little part of me left as those sounds seemed to echo forever in my mind. After the last shot was fired, I walked outside. I didn't feel the cold...or the wind. I didn't feel anything, really. I was numb through and through. I could have been standing in Siberia and it wouldn't have mattered at that point. Nothing mattered to me and all I could do was stand there and cry. Face in the wind, tears freezing on my cheeks before they could fall to the ground. What happened next...I will never forget for as long as I live.
My brother, Andrew, was still young...not quite yet a teenager. As I stood staring down the cold, he came over to me, tugged at my sleeve, and as I turned around he handed me a shell casing he had picked up off the ground and said "Here...I think Dad wants you to have this."
I don't remember anything else after that.
