Joseph Theodore

The Christmas trees were being decorated. The holly twisted along the banisters of stairways. Children played in the snow, with great anticipation of what the magical morning of Christmas would bring. The aroma of hot cocoa was hauntingly present throughout the house.

The hustle of the days as they closed in on Christmas brought sleep early to me. Running about trying to get all the wonderful new ornaments, wrapping paper, and gifts in time. I lay down to rest my weary bones. A few hours later the phone rang. My husband reached over and picked up the receiver. On the other end was my sister in law Laura. She was crying. The phone was immediately handed to me. I sat up and turned on the light on the nightstand.

“I’m sorry to tell you, but your father is dead.” I couldn’t answer right away, as the words had to travel from my ear to my brain. I replied back to her, “my father is dead?” “Yes.” The first thought that ran through my mind was that he must have suffered a heart attack and they found him dead in his bed. He was a chain smoker, and was on heart meds, so it wasn’t far from what I expected, but certainly not at this age, he was just 54. I asked, “what happened?” She didn’t say anything, and I could hear voices in the background.

“He killed himself. Your brother and I were checking up on him, we opened the door and found him in the living room.” Well, my mind immediately went into denial mode! No way, I thought! Not my father! Why was she lying to me? I asked her what she was talking about. She began to cry and told me she couldn’t talk right now, that the police were there with my brother and they were taking the body out.

I hung up the phone. I was standing at the time, but just sank to the floor. I didn’t know what to do or what to think. Killed himself – the words kept running through my brain non stop. I had always viewed my father as such an intelligent man. Self made, hard working, hard playing. But certainly not suicidal.

The next morning I spoke to my baby brother who had found him. My father had taken a shot gun, loaded one bullet. He then put the shot gun between his knees, the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. He was sitting in his favorite chair, and his favorite radio station played in the background. He had drank nearly an entire bottle of vodka and left all his personal effects laid out on the dining room table. And yes, he left a note.