Being Made Whole R.I.P. Jose Rosales

Disclaimer: My views are heavily influenced by the past 4 years of my education, life events, and Vipassana meditation. If you do not like the place I am in my head regarding how I dealt with the death of my father, do not read this. I wrote graphically and cried so that I can get all this out. This is my therapy. I finished this journal entry within a week after his passing.  

I had somewhat been preparing myself for Monday 23^rd 2015. I do not think anyone could ever really be prepared though. Every time I would think of my father’s passing I would start crying and immediately think of something else because I knew he was still alive and there was no point in reacting to what has not happened.

I was meditating when I had missed a call from an unknown lengthy number on Monday. I listened to the message and it was one of my cousins in Mexico saying my dad was doing very badly. He was not sick necessarily other than his major health issues that he had under control with medication, so I did not even understand what she could mean. I tried to call the number back but it would not connect and I remembered that I had taken off the international calling feature on my phone. How sick could he be? He was just in Mexico temporarily to mourn his older sister’s death from a few weeks before. In a few more minutes I would receive a facebook message from my aunt that said “tu papa fallecio hoy.” I was not familiar with that word “fallecio.” I translated it in a phone app to “killed” or “died.”  Those words did not even make sense at first. He was just feeling badly how was he gone already? I almost did not even believe that was a message from an aunt, it was some random cruel joke. I stood in my room stunned rereading the message. What the hell was going on? How was that it? How was it final? Why could there not be something still to be done?  I confirmed his passing when I spoke to an uncle who was in tears but some of his words were unfamiliar to me and this was extremely frustrating considering all the questions I had. It turns out that my father was complaining of chest pains that morning briefly in bed, and then he collapsed. He was dead before the ambulance got there from a massive heart attack at age 65.

I called my stepmother, my sister, my biological mother, my grandmother and my girlfriend. Everyone stopped what they were doing and came together at my house to make sense of what was happening and figure out what needed to be done. I told my little brother later and this was difficult. Both my siblings knew what had happened by the tone of my voice and the look on my face before I actually explained to them, almost as if they were expecting it.   

My sister, stepmother (who was still legally married to my father in Mexico) and I made arrangements to get to Mexico as soon as possible because in Mexico there is no hesitation when there is a death; they cremate or bury their dead within a day. We got plane tickets to fly out of Tijuana the following morning. My little brother was unable to go because he did not have a passport or an ID to get a passport. We asked the family to hold the body until we got there the next day.  

That night was extremely painful. I tried to observe the pain as it was happening so I could understand how to process it. It still hurts as I write this and I periodically have to stop and weep. What happens is this: Your dads face in different phases of his life flashes in your head and suddenly it feels like someone punches you in the stomach and knocks the wind out of you. Then your saliva thickens and you feel poisoned as if strychnine is in your blood stream. You keel over and your legs feel weak. You feel like your airway is blocked and you gasp to breathe. All you want to do is hug him and kiss his face. But you cannot and you never will again. Knowing this creates even shallower breathing, the muscles in your face constrict and you have no choice but to seize up. You think about the last thing you said to him and your last contact and how ignorant you were. I thankfully had gotten in touch with him on his birthday on March 18^th after calling him a few times and he had finally answered. I told him how much I loved him and that I was so proud of how he had turned his life around. I told him that he was an amazing man and that I loved him very much. He sounded grateful and thankful; he told me he loved me and that he would talk to me soon. That was the last time I spoke to him.

There was not a doubt in my mind that he knew I loved him I am certain. I had picked up the bottles from his room when his cataracts made him blind and he had resorted to staying drunk in a room alone. I had years of sobriety under my belt by that point and I knew that ritual of pining and holing yourself up in a self-loathing addicted stupor well. I helped him out of it. I cleaned his bathroom and reasoned with him that there was so much to live for when I knew he wanted to die at that point. I did not let him see my bawling as I scrubbed his bathroom floor knowing he had given up on life. It was like seeing your dad in prison but he alone is the only one who can free himself. He visited me in jail; he must have been familiar with that pain too. I had taken him to doctor’s appointment after doctor’s appointment, and then I took him to get his laser eye surgery giving him hope in a future because he could finally see again. Years later I had yelled at him in the ER when he had drank so much that he fell late one night in front of his house and was rushed away in an ambulance. That was when he made the decision to stop drinking and went into withdrawals. He went to the hospital again. I picked him up from detox on his birthday last year with my little brother and he told us about how my sister who had visited him there got kicked out because she took her daughters to see him despite the rules of no children on his floor. In the months after that I went to AA meetings with him. He knew he could call me and he knew that I was the one to contact in an emergency. He knew I was there for him because I wanted to see him succeed just as he had wanted to see me succeed growing up. I was his backbone when he needed because he was mine. Knowing all this was one of the only things that helped me have any peace of mind at the time.     

I had not been to Mexico to visit my huge family in 14 years. My father was one of thirteen but a third of them have passed. Regardless, there were cousins I had not even met yet. We were picked up from the Aguascalientes airport by a cousin who I met when she was maybe 10. She was now 24, smiling radiantly and full of life. We immediately were taken to the funeral home and my cousin’s boyfriend told us to go up to the second floor and that my dad was on the left. I went up the stairs and was greeted by face after face of uncles and aunts whom I had not seen in a lifetime (which to me was ever since I got sober.) I wanted to be happy to see them but the tears in their eyes and the reality of why I was there was so strong. They had lost 2 siblings in one month. I couldn’t imagine. I saw my father’s name written on a plaque outside of the room and my sister, mom and I went in the room to find an open casket.

It was the most terrifying, draining and painful thing I have ever done, walking into a room to see the corpse of my father. I saw him and a flood of that strychnine poison shot into my blood stream and I ached. It was real. My aunt and uncle whom he had been staying with comforted my sister and I as we bawled telling us how happy he was the entire time he had been there. I continually got up to see him in the casket then I would go back and sit and cry. When I looked at him while he was alive the warm blood in his body made his vessels red that made up the color of his face. Now deceased the vessels were a different color, he looked blue. I kept waiting for his eyes to open. I knew they would not but it really felt like at any moment he would open them. I kept feeling like there was some movement out of the corners of my eyes but of course there was not. It was my mind playing tricks on me. It was about this time that my reality changed.

I got angry at myself and I felt like a selfish asshole. We were all assholes. Here I was crying, selfishly wishing he was here with us, wishing I had him here alive. Here for what?! When he was alive he was taking medication constantly. He was stressing about bills at home in Laguna. He was struggling to make ends meet. He would call me frantic about what to do about debt collectors. I would tell him to not stress because nothing could happen to him. He did not have lots of money for anyone to take. He was constantly worrying at home in Laguna. He was much better after he stopped drinking because that clarity helped him react more appropriately but he still was monitoring his blood pressure constantly from all stress. If I truly love my dad, why would I still want him dealing with all that? He was now done with all of it. He had just had a surprise birthday party surrounded by all his family and longtime friends. He was so happy to be home in Mexico. My family showed me pictures of how happy he was surrounded by everyone that loved him so much. I could see the muscles in his face were of course no longer constricting and he looked peaceful. Finally. Not being one to subscribe to the belief system transplanted to this part of the world only 500 years ago, I do not think he is in a better place other than not having brain activity. His brain activity has ceased. The word “stress” isn’t even being processed in his brain. The life is done. Everything that made up what I know as my dad, the memories, the people, the life events and his way of dealing with them are gone to him and the details were never known to me because I did not have his consciousness. The way his brain processes things is no longer happening. I became kind of disgusted and irritated with the body in the box. It was a poor representation of the man my dad was. The body in the box was just a form of lifeless chemicals now. His ideas, his sense of humor, his knowledge of craftsmanship, his knowledge of history, and his work ethic could never be represented by the lifeless form in front of me. It was pathetic in comparison to what my father is. I do not mean he “is” insinuating his existence in a heaven or other afterlife but that he “is” in my mind and all of us whose lives he touched. When it comes to an afterlife I would rather not have him in a contrived place like a judeo Christian heaven anyways. Just using the word He when talking about my father acknowledges his personality and his mental state. I feel like he as the person I know as my dad would get bored in heaven quickly. Heaven is a place for people that are guilty about something. It is for people who believe they are unworthy and are born defective from a curse that was purposefully meant for them and they need to accept one narrative to be “saved.” I know him; he never lived truly thinking he was cursed. He got down on himself sometimes and he was weak sometimes but it was not because he truly felt guilt from a religious stand point. He never believed he was born defective; he was just bored at times.  He was not guilty either. He was unapologetically Jose Rosales.  

Because the death was so sudden, nothing was arranged and we had to handle the business process while mourning. In between sobs we had to pick out what urn came with the “package,” we needed to pay for the extra day they held him and we had to figure out how were going to get the funds together to pay for the service. We were bargaining in between our devastation. This was irritating and angered me. I understand that people provide a service that must be paid for but the entire idea just did not sit well. Where there is a market, there is profit to be made and we as a species capitalize on it so that we can pay for places to eat and sleep, we capitalize on it no matter what it is at anyone’s expense because we must in turn pay other people so that we can survive. I thought about the obscene perversion this capitalist ideal had evolved to on US soil in Bloomberg’s “9/11 Memorial Land,” where the executives are getting paid more than the president and people are charged $25 dollars to pay their respects to the thousands that died in the Twin Towers. Something is wrong with this and I feel it.       

We were asked how long we wanted to stay with him until they hauled him off to be cremated. At that point I was somewhat bitter and I did not care when they took away the false image of my dad but later I realized this was the last time I would see the body of the man I knew as my father so we all agreed and asked for the maximum amount of time. In the last few hours with him I would stare at his face and try to deprogram what I knew was occurring in my head. I knew that every time I looked at the corpse my amygdala was responsible for my emotional response to the sight of his face. The amygdala is what controls emotional memory in the brain. I knew there was a process happening that I was reacting to and I could affect this process. I was trying to disassociate with the emotional response I was getting with my eyes. It may sound mechanical but I feel like if you have awareness, you should use it and that is how I could try to alleviate some of the poisoned sensation. Knowing this neural process worked for a little bit.

They took his casket out and put it in the hearse and we followed behind in the now oldest uncle’s car. We came to the crematorium and we waited while they pulled the casket out. My sister and I wanted to hug him one last time and she refused to leave him until the last possible allowed time. They opened the casket, I saw my dad and again I was injected with poison. This was it, the last goodbye. I was first. I put my arms around him, put my face next to his, and kissed the side of his face one last time. I whispered “I love you dad.” I knew he couldn’t hear me; he was not in this mannequin. I said “I love you” for myself.

My sister and mother said their goodbyes and so did my uncle. They wheeled my father to the back out of view and when they were ready they let my sister and I go back. My sister went first and I followed. I went to where my sister was standing and looked into the room. I saw the top of his head in what looked like a huge oven and the amygdala started functioning again. I wanted to pull him out. It was like seeing someone torture your father. “My dad is trapped and is about to be set on fire” I kept thinking but my rational brain kept arguing that that was not my father. My sister cried hysterically and I was beside myself with emotion. I was nauseous, saddened, and paralyzed. The man closed the door to the large incinerator and I could still see the top of his head through a small window. The man fired up the furnace and then turned it on. I saw the inside of the incinerator light up with fire and I could still see the top of what my eyes were telling me was his head. My sister screamed and the man slowly closed the door so we could not see the body anymore. I turned and was done. After looking away I was able to tell myself again that what was being incinerated was not my father and I told my sister it was time to go. We stumbled out of the room and up to the street. I felt like I died too. Was witnessing that process necessary? I do not know but do I know the feeling of abandonment. I know how I would not wish that on anyone, so my sister who was adamant about not abandoning my father was understandable.  I *knew* however that my dad was not feeling anything. He was not feeling alone, he was not thinking. If anything, I did not want to abandon my sister while she struggled with his physical body disappearing. It was terrible. It was surreal. It felt like the absolute worst nightmare that was actually my life and it has forever changed me. Everything seems like a Disneyland’s child ride now.   

The next day consisted of formalities of getting the ashes on the plane and back home. We picked up my father’s remnants in the morning with his name engraved on the heavy box. My sister and I had picked the urn with the Virgin Mary on it. We both agreed and liked having a woman on his urn more than a male savior. Dad would have liked it more too. Who wants a dude on their urn? Seeing the reflection of my face in my dad’s name brought on more tears and we thanked the funeral home director as he had given us an outstanding “deal.” We now had possession of the remnants of the physical incarnation of the man that had given me consciousness. I felt better to have something of his physical body near but adjusting is still a process.

As we drove around Aguascalientes the entire day I changed as a person. Being obsessed with the bullshit “war on drugs,” dedicating my education to changing policy, treating addiction, and helping to do something, anything to help Mexico’s people, I knew I had to engulf myself in a culture that I had lost. I have learned about revolutions throughout Russia, China, Iran, Haiti and I have traveled across the US documenting the Native American struggle. I was programmed by the US narrative that this land, specifically California, was a “wild frontier” that was civilized by an expanding empire. I know that this is complete bullshit. Through all my studies I have failed to dive into my own culture other than bonding with jail birds when I was behind barbed wire. I knew that I needed to understand the culture and be in touch with the people in Mexico, “my” people. (I hesitate to create that divide because in all reality I feel like all people are my people but my bloodline and how I was raised is a reflection of this specific location.) I was never sure how I was going to go about doing this legwork in reconnecting with that side of my life and here I was, in the middle of my father’s hometown, breathing the air, working on my Spanish and taking in the heritage.

After we squared away the paperwork to get his ashes back to the states we wanted to spend some time in town so we made a plan. Aguascalientes is a gorgeous city. It is not gorgeous in terms of what we may think of here from watching television, with manufactured lawns filled with nonindigenous plants that require lots of money to maintain or expensive stainless steel refrigerators, or people with perfect fingernails, heated leather seats in cars, etc. That is precisely why Aguascalientes is so beautiful. They are not spending money on creating a false narrative where there is no substance. They do not need to. They have rich cultural history. They embrace their Aztec indigenous history and acknowledge the Spanish conquest. They acknowledge both sides of the imperialists and the natives. In government buildings they quote that if knowledge of history is lost, there can be no justice. The broken down “unkempt” parts of town are left unkempt and that realness is something we here hardly see here in the US. It is a taste or reality. It is honest in what time does. That is true beauty in my eyes. They do not need to propagate a consistent image to sell as the only truth; they have preserved honesty in history.   

Guided by one of my beautiful cousins we went to the oldest cathedral in the city built in 1764. My grandfather had maintained it doing all the carpentry work in the entire cathedral. It was the most amazing thing I have seen. It was just as breath taking as any cathedral I have seen in Europe and it is right in my backyard. Not only that, my family has a direct tie to this profound art and history. I thought back to California and the oldest building there is in my hometown of San Juan Capistrano, the mission built in 1776. Everything else has a shallow history starting well after conquest. Of course Orange County, my home, is an oasis and many of the places I frequent are resort towns where people come from miles around to take vacations, but the constant image is blatantly trying to hide something. Why do I know so little about California history being educated in California? Why were there so many Mexicans in jail when I was there? Why are they fighting each other on the streets in every major city? Why is Orange County known for being so superficial? How is Orange County second in the nation for prescription drug deaths? I think about these questions not to be condescending or to complain but I think about this to put the proverbial cards on the table so that we can devise solutions and add what is missing. There is no progress in standing around saying “I am the best.” Being surrounded by the richness of preserved centuries I knew that I needed to solidify this connection in Mexico through a dual citizenship.  

Exiting the cathedral walking around one of the largest city parks I had flashbacks of being there with my dad when I was a kid. In the middle of the park was a gazebo and in it there were 5 b-boys breaking. I was amazed and comforted that not more than a few blocks from the cathedral, hip hop was being represented. I wonder if they knew about Zulu Nation. I found a new job. Later the next day at the airport when we were leaving I would see a man wearing a Suffocation hat. Considering Suffocation being my favorite death metal band for a long time I was reminded of the universality of music and the cross cultural messages I needed to address in my own music. This trek through the city before the first ceremony of the 9 days of mourning for my father had a profound healing effect on me and I felt like I was finally in a position to understand, appreciate and accept the gift that was being given to me.    

We engaged with the people, ate amazing food and enjoyed our family reuniting. My dad would have loved my sister and me walking around his hometown with our cousin but he would never have forced us to come down and spend time, until now. I felt ashamed that it took his death for me to reconnect with so many brilliant people who are my family. What was I doing with my life? I had such an amazing resource of culture, knowledge, history and comradery that I had been completely failing to seize. I had been missing something essential to my being that could only have been discovered by experiencing it.

For me to accomplish what I need to affect change in Cali, in jails, in Mexico and to be involved in the community, I would have to get in touch with my roots. This death was the conduit. My father passing was excruciatingly painful but in hearing alternative situations of parental death from friends, he and I had it good. The thought of the event of his death was something that constantly was bothering me while he was alive here in the States. Sometimes I could not even be intimate with my girlfriend because I felt guilt about him being alone in Laguna. Of course he was not, especially towards the end, but I feared him dying drunk in an alley, or being on hospice and what prolonged agony that could bring. I feared him slowly rotting away in a hospital bed as so many people I know have had to deal with in their situations. I did not want to see him in agony. The way it unfolded was that he had one of the best birthdays he had had in years surrounded by all his family and childhood friends, then he had 3 minutes of body shut down, then he was gone. If there was a heaven, he lived it here on earth for weeks and now he lives in us.    

It is bitter sweet to regain all my family, culture, heritage, inspiration, and new connections but trade the physical consciousness that was my father. More than ever I see how holding onto his physical being is making me miserable. The attachment reminds me of my favorite movie Jacob’s Ladder where the main character is tormented by demons trying to rip him away from his life. It is not until he makes peace with letting go and the impermanence of all things that those demons become angelic and he transcends to a higher consciousness. I could not have asked for a better way for him to go and he went before deteriorating to the point of being unrecognizable. I am so grateful for this. Am I “blessed” in this? Absolutely not. That is an insult to the other 80% of the world who perish without even clean drinking water. I despise the idea that I was picked to endure less pain than a mother who lost her innocent baby to cholera in Haiti. I could never ever think of myself as that important and anything that could make that decision to continually “bless me” living in the paradise that is Southern California rather than someone born in dire circumstances, needs to put their fucking hands together to give clean water to states in Africa and stop the senseless killing of innocent civilians in Ciudad Juarez. I’ll be fine. No I am never “mad at god” because to me that is the intellectual equivalent of being bitter at Bigfoot. I am angry at the selfish inconsistency of that “exceptional chosen people” type of thinking in my species. We need to take responsibility and stop putting ourselves on a pedestal as something other than complete products of this earth. We have made it as a species because *we* help each other. Despite my feelings about the Western world’s brand of religiosity I appreciate all good wishes and talk of prayers in my circumstance. The fact that people are thinking of my family’s hardship at this time at all is humbling. It just shows me how many lives my dad touched and how much love people can have for those in emotional agony.  

This painful mission brought my step mother, sister, brother and I together as a team propping one another up when we each crumbled. We worked through our grievance and continue to support each other. Through writing most of this I have been in constant contact with my cousins in Mexico via text message, the cousins that I lost consistent contact with for over a decade. I am determined to get dual citizenship being that my father was born in Mexico and I am determined to build a home there. I have a direct line to and have seen the vast culture that is in my backyard. I have rediscovered this treasure. People have consistently told me they are sorry for my loss but I feel like I have actually gained so much. My online and physical family have come together and humbled me in such an amazing way by contributing to my dad’s funeral fund. The loving words I have received from everyone have contributed to a steady flow of tears but they are tears of gratitude and thanks. Still I know difficulty is on the horizon as I scramble to arrange a service for him here.

I recently had been saying this year that the stakes were being raised, and now I see this seems to be the trend. You think when you are young that once you conquer the fear of playing on TV in front of millions of people that there is nothing that can test you more. You accomplish this and conquer that fear but then your addictive tendencies make you lose trust in everyone, you land in jail facing race riots and are ready to commit acts of terrible violence just to stay alive. You survive, find a mission, conquer your addiction and think that there is nothing that can throw you off. Then your father dies in another country and you have to endure indescribable sorrow while you go get him, cremate him, bring him back on a plane, plan and fund his service, console loved ones, work to pay bills, and stay in school. What is next, intercepting a meteor from hitting earth while you are being raped by reptilians listening to Pitbull? Luckily I have Vipassana meditation which has been my saving grace in this. It is not like prayer because I am not petitioning a higher being. I am observing myself and that is it. I am living in the moment because that is all there is and in doing this I am able to stop clinging, at least for periods of time.  

Yes I miss my dad terribly but I am also happy for him in a way. He went out before he had to grow decrepit. I think I would prefer that for myself as well.

If I was going to say a prayer and throw out some words into the ether, I would acknowledge to the man that made me and raised me:

“Thank you dad for always showing support and for always making me feel loved. You may have not known how to show it all the time but those are just technicalities. I learned how to understand your language. Thank you for taking care of so many people and for giving so many people opportunities. You were an inspiration because you took pride in everything you did and from that you were respected. Thank you for making me strong through hard physical labor. This was a catalyst for fearlessness, determination, endurance and it reminds me I am alive. Thank you for showing me addiction and passing on the genes to conquer it. Without that dose of reality I would not be who I am today and I would never have been aware of how conditioned I truly am. Thank you for talking to everyone, it showed me how to acknowledge and treat fellow humans with compassion. Thank you for showing me how to use my talents to help other people. This has become my life and I will always continue to live this lesson from you. Even in your death dad, you introduced me to so much richness. You gave me this wealth that I had forgot I had and this legacy is more valuable than any amount of money could have ever been. Your last impact on my life has made me whole, a complete person. Nothing can ever take that away, ever. I will use every faculty you have given to me or presented me with. You thought you were proud before? I am going to fuck some shit up. I love you and thank you. See you in a few. ”