John L. Pastore: A Struggle With Life
John L. Pastore: A Struggle With Life
Walking up to the doorstep of my father’s house with my mother, I felt terrified and sad; it took all of my courage to walk inside. Seeing my father literally laying on his death bed, looking so sickly. I tried to hold back my tears and be brave for him and my stepmother Cathy. He lay there, knowing his fate. It just blew my mind how positive he was. He had a picture of me by his bed, a picture of me that had been in the newspaper for winning an award. My father laid there telling me how incredibly proud he was of me. He talked to me and even gave me advice on men (I had just gotten out of my first real long-term relationship). He had said to me “Sara, do you know how he’s the one? When he’s the only one left.” I had no idea what that meant and still don’t, but I smiled and I listened, choking back my tears and trying to stay brave, for him.
A few weeks before all of this, he had been a healthy. A 5’10” Italian man, looking like he had just stepped off the set of the “Sopranos“. His voice was so extremely loud that even his whisper would hurt your ear drums. I can still to this day hear his loud boisterous voice in my head. He had olive skin, a big belly, and always wore turquoise colored jewelry. He cared so much for all four of his children: myself and my brother Curtis, our older half brother Matt, half sister Missy. I was always the closest with my father out of the four of us (even though my sister thinks she was), and also the youngest. My brothers, my sister and my mother would always tell me how I couldn’t understand what they had gone through. They thought that it was easier for me to be closer to him because I hadn’t experienced what they had. My oldest brother Matt, stopped talking to my father for approximately the last seven years of his life.
My father had a drinking problem before I was born. He went through two marriages while struggling with this problem. He struggled with his addiction and tried numerous times to get sober. He struggled through life, and did whatever he could to make a better life for himself after he got sober. He went through a lot to get sober, but finally accomplished it. Before he passed he had been sober for seventeen years.
So there I stood there looking at my father dying. A man who had such a rough life. He went from the very bottom and turned his life around. He was clean and sober. However, he had been a smoker most of his life, which greatly added to his death. I was so confused, mad, upset, furious, every single emotion ran through my body. Why? Why was this happening? I didn’t understand why this was happening. I thought God gave everyone second chances. My father had gotten his and took advantage of it. He became a better father, a wonderful grandfather, and a good husband to Cathy.
It was time for me to leave. Still trying so hard to be brave, for him. I gave him a huge hug and a kiss and walked out to the car with my mother. I had just turned eighteen, I was graduating from high school the following week. Would my father be able to see me walk across the stage? Would he be able to see my get my diploma? Would he be able to see me go off to college? Would he be able to walk me down the isle when I got married? I knew the answers to these questions, I just didn’t want to believe it.
John L. Pastore was born September 9, 1947 in Saratoga, NY (Upstate New York). His parents were Josephine and Alfred Pastore. They were traditional Italian parents, who screamed at each other in Italian frequently. My father had one brother, his name was Chuck. I don’t know much about him besides what my mother and sister have told me. I met him once, at my grandmother’s funeral. My mom told me to keep my distance because he was ‘crazy.’ I don’t really have memories of my Grandfather seeing as he passed away when I was around three. I do have many pictures of him though. A skinny man, with dark sunken in eyes, and a big nose. I have very vivid memories of my grandmother. She definitely scared me a little when I was younger. She was very loud and outspoken. She had grayish hair, she wore big glasses, and she always wore red lipstick. She passed away when I was in seventh grade.
My father grew up in Ballston Spa, New York, in an Italian neighborhood. They didn’t move around a lot, my father pretty much stayed in the same area until he got older. He lived in Syracuse for awhile, then moved to Fulton, and then lived in Oswego for the remainder of his life (all in Upstate New York). I don’t know too much about my father’s childhood, and now that he’s not around and none of his family members besides my sister and brothers are around, I have to just go on what I remember and what I have been told.
My grandparents didn’t drink and they never had drinking problems. I always thought was a little strange because I thought that alcoholism had to be genetic; that’s not the