Years ago, perhaps as many as 15, during one of my visits home, my father took me aside and spoke to me in a quiet and earnest voice. This was a period of considerable turmoil in his relationship with my mentally disturbed brother, who, with his wife, had been forced by lack of money to move into our parents’ house. Dad had been very focused on his own health and was trying hard to keep it by taking vitamin and nutritional supplements, including ginko and others. Arthritis was a painful problem, so much that he walked with awkward lurch to one side. Dad never seemed completely comfortable with himself. He had had a poor relationship with is own father and carried deep scars from that. He once confided to me that he was deformed, and indeed, his hands were slightly oddly-shaped with little fingers that were only 3/4 the size that would have seemed to fit the rest of his hand. But I had never really noticed and was surprised that he seemed to be a bit ashamed of this barely noticeable physical feature. The root of his perception of deformity was, I suspect, more likely to be found in the development of his personality than in his appearance.
On this occasion, he explained that he wanted to live as long as necessary to take care of Mom until her death, but no longer. After that, he said, he would probably commit suicide. He most definitely did not want to be a burden anyone. He assured me that he would not use one of his many firearms in this act. He was a bit of a gun fanatic, a firm supporter of the Second Amendment and a lifetime member of the NRA. And he didn’t want his suicide connected to something he dearly loved.
Of course, I was a bit shocked by this revelation, but didn’t take it too seriously since Mom was in excellent health and I figured that the circumstances he was waiting for would not arise for many years. I felt sad that he did not think he would be needed or wanted after Mom died, but I did not explore the issue further with him. Such was his disconnection from his sons.
Several year later, when Dad began to have trouble with is memory, he gave me the key to his safe and I did an inventory for myself. It was a large safe, but nearly empty–a fire-proof box with some legal documents, a small toolbox and rack of drawers with small screws and nails, an old carved wooden box with some family memorabilia including a German cross from the war and some type of US military award pin. Dad did not serve in WWII, but I imagined these might have come to him from one of his uncles.
Also, I found a small piece of aluminum foil, tightly folded to the size of a large stamp. A small bulge indicated something inside. I opened the tiny package and to my surprise discovered a small capsule without markings, just one single capsule. Immediately our conversation from years ago came to my mind. Perhaps this small capsule had been carefully obtained and hidden around that time. Dad was a bit of a chemist–made his living at it, in fact, so he knew how to formulate an effective mix of deadly compounds.
I wrapped the capsule in its foil pocket and replaced it in the carved box. Whatever it was or its intended use would never be known for certain. Dad was not capable of getting into the safe any longer and could never lay his hands on the capsule, even if he did somehow recall his intention. Somewhere along the way in his descent into permanent forgetfulness, the moment when he might have reached for it had passed him forever.
And I am grateful for this. We have shared more love in the last few years than we managed in all our prior years. Though I am deeply saddened by his current condition and all the suffering that has come with it, I believe that, in the end, we both have had better lives because the quality of our relationship over the last few years has redeemed so many of our earlier shortcomings.