My Dad's Birthday is coming up
I was reminded by my mother this morning that my Dad's birthday will be coming up soon (he would've been 46, if I've done the math right, which I probably haven't) and she suggested we visit his grave, and I agreed.
He was 38 when he died, due to a brain haemmorrhage. I didn't know much about what it was, and I still don't really. I'm not sure I want to know. My mother at the time explained it as a blood vessel in your head bursting, something that couldn't be corrected and was there all your life. I'm not certain if that's true, or if it was told to me to make me feel better. Like I said, I don't want to know.
I was nine when my Dad died, and the last time I'd seen him was when I was eight. He'd left for England, for work, meaning his usual visits stopped and I only spoke to him over the phone. He kept almost coming back, but I kept getting told something had come up or something was wrong. Then, while in England, he died. I understood, at that age, but as I've gotten older I've thought more about it and what happened. My mother told me he was alive in hospital for months, in some sort of coma, but now I'm uncertain. I don't know if she was putting off telling me or not, and I'm not gonna ask her. She was probably telling the truth.
That sort of thing is really odd, the brain haemmorrhage, if it was inside him all along. He worked at the airport, and it's strange to think that he worked all his life towards getting money, getting married, being happy...all the work he put into school and jobs he didn't like and relationships with his friends and such all kind of came to nothing, because his body had already decided an expiration date. It really doesn't seem fair at all.
Sorry if this post really depressed anyone, I'm just putting my thoughts down. I haven't been to his grave in a very long time, so it'll be good to go again. I've been feeling pretty guilty about not going more often. Well.
Again, sorry for being incredibly depressing. Here's a photo of Jessica Alba for the fellas, and Nathan Fillion for the gals.
He was 38 when he died, due to a brain haemmorrhage. I didn't know much about what it was, and I still don't really. I'm not sure I want to know. My mother at the time explained it as a blood vessel in your head bursting, something that couldn't be corrected and was there all your life. I'm not certain if that's true, or if it was told to me to make me feel better. Like I said, I don't want to know.
I was nine when my Dad died, and the last time I'd seen him was when I was eight. He'd left for England, for work, meaning his usual visits stopped and I only spoke to him over the phone. He kept almost coming back, but I kept getting told something had come up or something was wrong. Then, while in England, he died. I understood, at that age, but as I've gotten older I've thought more about it and what happened. My mother told me he was alive in hospital for months, in some sort of coma, but now I'm uncertain. I don't know if she was putting off telling me or not, and I'm not gonna ask her. She was probably telling the truth.
That sort of thing is really odd, the brain haemmorrhage, if it was inside him all along. He worked at the airport, and it's strange to think that he worked all his life towards getting money, getting married, being happy...all the work he put into school and jobs he didn't like and relationships with his friends and such all kind of came to nothing, because his body had already decided an expiration date. It really doesn't seem fair at all.
Sorry if this post really depressed anyone, I'm just putting my thoughts down. I haven't been to his grave in a very long time, so it'll be good to go again. I've been feeling pretty guilty about not going more often. Well.
Again, sorry for being incredibly depressing. Here's a photo of Jessica Alba for the fellas, and Nathan Fillion for the gals.