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James was a nice man. He was the type that would go out of his way for everyone, and he always had a great sense of humor. He had many things to be proud of in his life: seeing the birth of his three children (now grown), getting to spend time with his two grandsons, being around for both of his daughter's weddings, having a stable job, and ,of course, spending time with his lovely wife of twenty-six years.

Unfortunately, there was another side to my father, James. Growing up in a family in which his father often spanked him for crying, did little to foster the concept of "it is okay for men to cry". So, he never did cry, even after his wife of twenty-six-years (my mom) lost her short battle with cancer. James did not know how to cope with his feelings, and "only sissies go to therapy" as his dad always told him. "Real men know how to handle their problems, son" he would say. His father had died in 1991, but even now as his life was spiraling out-of-control, he still would not seek professional help. Unless, of course, one counts his three-day-stay at an observation center not long after his wife had died. On that occasion, he had told my brother that he was going to shoot himself because he could not make it without our mom. She was his "everything" and he so desperately wanted to be with her. Luckily, my brother was able to wrestle the gun away before he loaded it with bullets. His mother (our grandmother) was still alive, and many would argue he could have turned to her for comforting words during his loss. But her solution was to take "sleeping pills" to avoid thinking about things, and she was more than happy to be his personal supplier of those pills. What a horrible time this must have been for our father- losing the only person that had been there for him all of those years and now not knowing how to reach out for help.

So, he began to drink beer and take valiums more frequently. Sometimes, he would call me late at night and ask me to make him something to eat because he was not able to stand up long enough to do it himself. He would just smile and stagger to the door saying, "Ah, let me get that, I can carry it. I am not drunk. I am tired from working hard today". Of course, I never would argue with him, but I never let him attempt to carry the food to the table either. Mainly, because I knew he would either burn himself or fall with it and have nothing to eat. So, I would carry my oven mitts with me and make excuses that it was "too hot to

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