I just watched the end of All that Jazz on some channel or another (I think it’s one of the offshoots of a local broadcast channel, but I’m not sure). I probably shouldn’t have. Not because I don’t like it; All That Jazz is a terrific movie. It’s based loosely (or not so loosely) on the life of Bob Fosse, who directed the film. Bob Fosse was one of the greats of theater/film, and he was a favorite of my father’s. The film centers on Joe Gideon, who is slowly working/smoking/drinking/fucking/pill-popping himself to death. It’s his heart, of course, which is highly susceptible to hard living. My father lived pretty damn hard in his time, and his heart is finally what gave out on him.
Maybe it’s the couple of glasses of wine I’ve had tonight. Maybe it’s seeing the movie. Maybe it’s because Dad’s birthday is just a few days away. But it got to me. I’ve recovered enough that I’m not currently in a fetal position; maybe I’ll do that later. I don’t know. I know I’ll never really put his death to rest, I’ll never quite get over it. I’ll always feel like I could have, should have done something more–even though I’m pretty damn sure there isn’t anything else I could have done. Even though I know it isn’t true, I’m always going to feel responsible somehow. There’s always going to be a shadow of a doubt, a small recrimination that I should’ve taken better care of him.
And I’m always going to wish I had another chance.