Michael

It's true, what they say about not being able to rescue others from their own destiny. Sometimes, eventhough you may understand this idea with your mind, you can't accept it in your heart. At least that's where I was. I don't know if I'll ever really recover from the broken heart I have. Michael was his name. He was my Dad. He died too young and I saw it coming but couldn't change it. Acceptance is the hardest part. Sometimes I dream about him, vividly. I see him in my dreams and I hold his hand. It feels real. Some days I can't accept that he's dead. And eventhough I believe with all my heart that there's more to existence than this dimension or plane or whatever you want to call it, it's still devastating that I must suffer the loss of this person who has shaped me into who I am: that even if he still exists, it hurts eternally that I can't talk to him and hug him. There are things I will never know. I may never understand entirely where he was mentally and emotionally. I will never understand why his life wasn't worth living. I am angered sometimes that he couldn't find the will to live. Not angry at him, just angry that I had to lose him. When he died I had horrible dreams for some time. I couldn't escape the image of him suffering. Within a few days of his passing, I had a dream that gave me some comfort although it was also heartwrenching and cut me to the bone. In the dream, I was in his mind after he had the stroke. I was inside of his mind with him. He knew what had happened, and made a choice not to ask for my help, or anyone else's. He made the choice to die. He was paralyzed on the left side of his body. He decided to take off his clothes since he knew he couldn't walk. It took so much effort to do this. He took his time, and folded them, placing them on the chair next to him. Then he laid on the floor. It was at least 4 or 5 days before he was found. He had a lot of time to think. I was in his mind with him. He started to recall the sensations he had experienced during his life: all of them. He took the effort to meticulously relive every experience of his whole life, and I had the privilege of being there. He was at peace. It's me who is not.