Growing up, I thought being right
meant getting my way. It never occurred to me to be otherwise.
My father always won, so it took a long time to learn my father might not win.
When I finally let go of my ideas and the argument was over,
there would be peace and quiet — at least for a little while.
was one of those people for whom to be right was his last breath,
his complete and final concept of himself. It gave his life meaning.
I wonder what was done to him?
What terrible memory dogged and rattled him? What was he afraid would happen if he stopped
for just a minute? Something was chasing him all my life and years and years before
commitments, kids and a wife entered in.
When they told him he was dying I thought
finally! He might stop running. And all the trips to help
with doctors and medicines, the chemo and radiation that stole his energy
that stole my name, still
cancer gave me the gift of sitting, finally time to simply be
with him. But rather than rest, accepting
he had mere months to live
he still thought he could win. What was he thinking? In those last days
the cancer broke him.
Finally, something got the best of all his striving, his knowing. Being right.
Whatever it was that chased and tortured him — I will never know.
I thought being right would feel better than this.
Perhaps that is why he died still believing
he would live.
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