I always hated the feeling of waking up, looking at the clock and feeling that instant burst of adrenaline, knowing that I'll never make the bus on time. It's the worst way to wake up when you instantly have to jump out of bed, throw some clothes on, brush your teeth so fast that you stab you gums head on and fly out the door with one shoe on and half a bagel hanging out your mouth. That didn't happen today, but I did wake my son up ten minutes before his bus arrived.
My day was filled though with lab deadlines to be met, technological issues, meetings, snow tire installation, a trip to the post office, coaching a varsity hockey game, a coaching class final exam and philosophy paper. I didn't stop running until 12:30 a.m., just enough time to check Facebook before going to bed. My cousin Lisa left me a note on my profile that she was thinking about me today and that she misses Uncle Eddie (my Dad). That's when the burst of adrenaline hit. My life is so full of stuff that I completely missed the fact that it was the anniversary of my Father's death. How could I forget? I never called my Mom to see how she's doing. I didn't go to dinner with my sister Ellen to celebrate his life. I never sat down with my kids and talked about how incredible he was as a father. Is this what 11 years does, making it fade to the point that the insanity of my life doesn't allow a minute for the thought of my Father enter my head? I feel guilty for not remembering.
My Father died 11 years ago after a 9 month battle with esophageal cancer. Ironically, I just had an endoscopy yesterday to keep tabs on the damage I've already done to mine from acid reflux. I go every two years to make sure I don't follow the same path my Dad took with his. I slept through most of yesterday while recovering from the anesthesia. I usually don't remember much of the day when I have an endoscopy done. The medication they give me makes it so I don't remember the unpleasantness of the procedure which I have to be awake for. I remember the first one I had done back in 2002, shortly after my father died. They must not have given me enough of the medication since I remember all of it. Swallowing a camera with a tube attached to it is not an easy task. Ever since then, I make sure they give me plenty. In fact, my wife Sue usually has some very funny stories of the things I do or say in my drunken stooper while coming out of the anesthesia. For example, last year while driving home, I saw an adult sized beaker, like the one's from Chemistry class in high school, fighting with a large bundle of helium balloons on the sidewalk along North Pearl St. I also had trouble getting up the three steps to the front door because I couldn't lift my legs high enough, however after reaching the door, I somehow felt the need to start running in the house. Thankfully I don't remember how that turned out. Yesterday's recovery was somewhat uneventful aside from the occasional hallucination in the recovery room.
I'd love to think I forgot about the anniversary of my Father's death because of the medication. Unfortunately, the only thing I can attribute it to is the insanity I've allowed my life to become. 'Tis the season I suppose. I miss you Dad.
