One

Another half-ass epilogue. It might help to read 42 first.

"Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so you apologize for truth." Benjamin Disraeli

Death smells like curry.

That was literally the first thing I thought as I walked into my parents house for what ended up being Mom's death watch.

The scent of multiple Reunzit Adjustable Air Fresheners mixed with the smell of decay.

Pungent. Spicy. Floral. Curry.

Those air fresheners were everywhere. All part of Dad's vain attempt to cover up the smell of death. Which stinks. Literally and figuratively.

Three years later and the slightest whiff of a Renuzit Air Freshener produces a flashback akin to Proust jumping out of a bush and kicking me in the nuts, hard.

After my epiphany I contacted Dad to see if he could corroborate my theory about Mom. That she knew (or thought) she was dying when she bought the Boy(s) those surfboards.

The question, out of the blue as it were, got one of Dad's typical forthright answers.

Dad said, "I believe your mom had a feeling she wasn't doing very well in early 2005. She tried to keep her cancer as private as she could, even from me sometimes. We scheduled the cruise in the summer of 2005 and the minute we got back she went to the hospital for surgery on her lungs for the second time. So your time line is about right, but also your mom did things that had far reaching aspects to them. So if Wyatt is enjoying the gift from your mother that's great, and somewhere up there she is probably watching and enjoying both of your sons. Knowing they are enjoying the gifts. With a smile!"

Five minutes before the conversation that would lead to the epiphany Wyatt said, "Ethan and me are different. I like to surf. He likes to play in the sand."

"You guys are flip side of the same coin," I said.

"Coin?" Wyatt asked, arching his eyebrows in a way that made him look even more like me. "Can I get a gum ball?"

I laughed. "Not that kind of coin."

"Oh," he said.

"I mean that you guys are basically the same, even though you are different. Your essence. Because you both come from Mommy and Daddy."

Wyatt gave me a strange look, probably thinking, what is he talking about, grabbed his board and ran out into the surf. Five minutes later he asked, "Why did Granny buy me this?" which is where this all began.

Labor Day weekend marked the third anniversary of Mom telling me she was dying. Granted I suck in real time, but the fact that it took me nearly three years to realize she knew she was dying long before she told me has had a profound effect on how I remember her final months. Things culminated that Labor Day weekend because the outcome was no longer in question. Before that weekend, Dad would always call me after Mom had a treatment or doctor appointment. Giving me his version of what happened (or was happening.) After he finished he almost always passed the phone over to Mom who would give me her interpretation of the same events.

Their stories never matched. At times it even appeared that they were talking about completely different events.

There were common themes in the stories.

Dad was always positive and upbeat. His glass was half full.

Mom's glass was missing. She would give a perfunctory recap at best, and then commandeer the conversation toward the Boy(s) and me and My Lovely Bride. The last thing she wanted to talk about was cancer which makes sense considering she knew she was dying.

On the occasions when I would press her for more information, trying to get a sense of what was really going on, because their stories didn't jive, she would grow angry. Not at me. At Dad. She'd go off on what she called his dream world interpretations of what was happening. Usually peppering her language with some strategically placed "F" bombs which always bothered Dad when they came out of her mouth.

As she got sicker, and her body failed her in the most basic of ways, her attacks on Dad grew more vicious. Even then I got that her attacks were an outlet for her frustration and anger. At the time I thought it was of being sick. Not getting that it was because she knew she was dying.

As for Dad. He took it all in stride. And although he never fought back or defended himself, he did keep his positive attitude up until the bitter end. He didn't even bring in a hospice nurse until Mom had roughly two weeks to live. Taking care of her as he took her fury over dying a horrible death.

Yes. I am king of the dipshits. And I do suck in real time. But really? Three years to realize Mom wasn't honest with me about her cancer and how long she had left to live. Three years to realize that my personality is a curious amalgam between my parents and that I am the flip side of their coin which means the traits I deplore in myself are often the ones I like the least in them. Three years to realize that those same traits are often the ones that frustrate and anger me the the most in the Boy(s). Three years to finally admit for the very first time that I thought that death smells like curry.

Three years. Fuck me.

Until I BLOG again...but we're not the same.