Already fifteen years since the day my father decided to go. I still miss the old man. As I'm aging (or simply because) I'm realising more and more that I am my father's daughter in more ways than one. One would hope that one would forget some, let go of that pain in a way, and yet it's not really the case.
It still gets to me when people talk about how a lot more than why. I guess I know why, and for sure I do know how. I respect how. I could never do what he did. It's not only a question of courage or lack of, but more a question of decissiveness - of being so decided on doing something that no matter what one just has to do it. Does that make any sense? Recently a family member commented on how, and debated that his how was a cowardly one. It is, in a way, but at the same time I think he mustered lots of courage. I don't think there was anything easy about his out. I can't fatom the idea of being so desperate that I could set up everything the way he did, plan every details and then go ahead with the whole thing knowing full well what he was about to do.
He had an ultimate goal: to stop his suffering, his pain... his life... to find his liberty in death.
May you rest in peace dad - after all those years I can only hope that you've found sweet liberty - may its bell ring for you and bring you a well deserved rest. I love you still, and always.