13 Jun Last Days Regrets
Most times I write about tender lives who slipped away with a sense of peace. Most certainly fulfillment. And most definitely gratitude for the footprints they left behind. The life story I am about to tell doesn’t roll with that flow, yet I’m compelled to tell it. His survivors want it told so they can blanket others with relief. Relief that transcends to strangers becoming kindred spirits when it comes to a sword fight with the dark side.
Connor was a New York borne baby. The youngest of 7, he had big shoes to fill with this feisty family of Irish fire. At 17, he lied about his age and enlisted into the Marine Corp. His father and siblings had served. Perhaps they didn’t like rules, or acknowledge boundaries either? As that is what Connor was missing. He had already stepped into a false bravado. Larger than life ~ at least in his mind. Connor was strong with an intellect beyond measure. A young man that could rip off 100 sit-ups then recite a Robert Frost poem with tears in his eyes. That was him. He went to fight the enemy failing to recognize the real enemy was within him. The enemy grew teeth when whiskey entered his system igniting illusionary tales to pass his lips.
Connor never saw active combat yet led a life of ideation. Without a shred of tangible evidence, he insinuated a soul-sucking level of PTSD as a result of so many years of being a sharp shooter and taking more lives than what he, himself, could ever fathom. The words “thank you for you service” responding to his social media misleading quotes filled his delusion and soon he believed his 50 years of lies. Without a medal, a uniform or a reasonable shred of proof supporting his tales of heroics, Connor camouflaged his psyche so that he could adopt an identity. His children were so proud of their (not so) hero father.
When backed into a corner, if his faux-military trauma tales didn’t elicit the proper response, Connor would turn to convoluted deadly cancer diagnosis to weaken the hearts around him from probing further. He led a life of a downward tailspin hoping that charisma and bullshit would prevail in the end.
It didn’t.
Finally, the diagnosis was real. Stage 4 liver cancer, with mets throughout, were swiftly invading Connor’s body. The family wanted to organize a proper military funeral. One fit for a true hero.
They felt blessed to have Connor with them to ask the “where, when and how’s.” He never really wanted to talk about it. Actually, he refused to talk about it aside from dropping magnificent hints of camping out in trees while fighting snakes, rushing under nightfall and yes, willing to surrender his life in a second for the betterment of society. Like a damaging hail storm, each member of the family quickly realized they all had a different rendition of his service.
Gasping for breath and no longer able to order a round of tequila shots to distract inquisitive minds, all Connor could mutter was, “my life was a lie…..all a lie.” It was absolution for him ~ perhaps ~ but for his children they felt as if they were just blindsided with adoption papers. Who is their father really? What legacy do I grab onto? They relayed to me, “I’ve told his stories my whole life, in pride, but now am reduced to a liar as well?”
Connor was buried without much fanfare. His adult children spent the service in a panic knowing there would be questions as to why their father wasn’t getting a proper military hero’s funeral. They came. They came in angry droves. His children paid his price.
What the family wanted me to convey is that truth counts. They loved their brother and father unconditionally and had to say goodbye realizing they never really knew him.
Speak your truth…..we are all just only human.
Telling Stories….One Legacy At A Time
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