This is my dad. Handsome devil, eh?
This was his high school senior picture, taken, I believe, in 1948. That was the year he married my lovely mother. She had just turned 16. Those were different times, weren't they?
And here he is again, in 1970, the year I was born.
That's right, you've guessed it! That's me he's holding in his arms - just a tiny version of me. I was less than a month old there. Look at his hands. Aren't they amazing? Those are the hands that will come to cradle me, teach me, protect me and love me throughout my life. I always loved those hands. I practically worshiped those hands. That man was my hero for most of my life.
That's right, you've guessed it! That's me he's holding in his arms - just a tiny version of me. I was less than a month old there. Look at his hands. Aren't they amazing? Those are the hands that will come to cradle me, teach me, protect me and love me throughout my life. I always loved those hands. I practically worshiped those hands. That man was my hero for most of my life.
And that was where my confusion began. I'm still confused.
My dad died one year ago on the 13th of April. I wish I could say that I've never felt such a complete sense of loss, but the truth is that his death just compounded a lifetime of confusion and pain that had come to its peak a few years before, on the day he came to my home, sat down on my couch, and disowned me.
It's complicated, you see.
My dad died one year ago on the 13th of April. I wish I could say that I've never felt such a complete sense of loss, but the truth is that his death just compounded a lifetime of confusion and pain that had come to its peak a few years before, on the day he came to my home, sat down on my couch, and disowned me.
It's complicated, you see.
How do I tell you about it without telling the whole story? Because I don't want to tell the whole story. I'm so tired of the whole story. It has been done to death. Let me simply say that scandals took place, my father refused to believe me, and he decided to cast me out of the family rather than deal with awful truths about his oldest son. His way of resolving the matter was to come to my home and perform some kind of ritualistic exorcism, cutting me out of his family. It finally occurred to me yesterday, I mean it really hit me like lightning out of the clear blue sky, that my father, whom I had always revered and looked to as my spiritual guide and intellectual leader, had literally come to me with the intention of performing some made-up religious rite wherein he would sever his spiritual ties to me, thereby absolving himself of responsibility and onus for me. As I clung to him, weeping against his chest, telling him repeatedly of my love for him, he literally pushed me away from him and shoved me into my husband's arms, stating that I should go to my husband. He told me I belonged with my husband. Then he walked off, got into his car, and drove away. He broke my heart. I meant nothing to him, or so his words and actions indicated. I felt as though I was dead to him. I wanted to die.
Within the next couple of months, as hollow and dead as I felt, I did my best to die. I tried twice to swallow as many pills as I could get my hands on. I was at the bottom of an endless, pit, and I could see no way out. I was underwater, and I was drowning. After twice ending up in the hospital due to my suicide attempts, I finally locked myself away in a mental hospital, in an attempt to save my own life. I knew it was the only way to keep myself from hurting those I loved - my children and my husband. If anything, I wanted to stay alive for them. I may not have had the desire to stay alive for them, but I knew the scars I would have left on them if I had succeeded in taking my life, and I truly didn't want to do that to them.
Within the next couple of months, as hollow and dead as I felt, I did my best to die. I tried twice to swallow as many pills as I could get my hands on. I was at the bottom of an endless, pit, and I could see no way out. I was underwater, and I was drowning. After twice ending up in the hospital due to my suicide attempts, I finally locked myself away in a mental hospital, in an attempt to save my own life. I knew it was the only way to keep myself from hurting those I loved - my children and my husband. If anything, I wanted to stay alive for them. I may not have had the desire to stay alive for them, but I knew the scars I would have left on them if I had succeeded in taking my life, and I truly didn't want to do that to them.
It worked. I found that my desire to live for my husband and kids was enough to build on. Today I live for myself and for them, and I am happy.
About a year before my dad died, I forced myself to go to my parents and make some sort of reconciliation. The truth was that I missed my mom, and in my parents' advanced age, I knew that it wouldn't be long before they would die. I didn't want my kids to miss out on having their grandparents in their lives. My parents had played major roles in my kids lives previously - we had even lived with them while Darrin went to back to college. We had all been so close, and I knew my kids were lonely and confused. I just couldn't let that continue. So ties were reestablished, with caution.
Then about a week before my dad's death, he had a major heart attack. He was in the hospital for several days. On the day he was released, I went to stay at my parents' house, to help take care of them as he recovered, and my mom had just had foot surgery, so she wasn't particularly mobile either. Shortly after I arrived, I noticed that my dad's ankles were swollen, and my mom pointed out that his eyes were puffy. I suggested that he go back to the hospital. I knew something was wrong. I had a terrible feeling. But my dad didn't want to listen to me. He was in his fluffy bathrobe and wanted to sleep in his own bed. (Besides, he knew better than me, didn't he? It WAS me we were talking about!) He told me he would see how he felt in the morning, after a good night's sleep.
I made my bed on the floor that night. I did not rest well. I kept worrying about his ankles and all that swelling. I just knew it wasn't right, particularly not right after a major heart attack.
About a year before my dad died, I forced myself to go to my parents and make some sort of reconciliation. The truth was that I missed my mom, and in my parents' advanced age, I knew that it wouldn't be long before they would die. I didn't want my kids to miss out on having their grandparents in their lives. My parents had played major roles in my kids lives previously - we had even lived with them while Darrin went to back to college. We had all been so close, and I knew my kids were lonely and confused. I just couldn't let that continue. So ties were reestablished, with caution.
Then about a week before my dad's death, he had a major heart attack. He was in the hospital for several days. On the day he was released, I went to stay at my parents' house, to help take care of them as he recovered, and my mom had just had foot surgery, so she wasn't particularly mobile either. Shortly after I arrived, I noticed that my dad's ankles were swollen, and my mom pointed out that his eyes were puffy. I suggested that he go back to the hospital. I knew something was wrong. I had a terrible feeling. But my dad didn't want to listen to me. He was in his fluffy bathrobe and wanted to sleep in his own bed. (Besides, he knew better than me, didn't he? It WAS me we were talking about!) He told me he would see how he felt in the morning, after a good night's sleep.
I made my bed on the floor that night. I did not rest well. I kept worrying about his ankles and all that swelling. I just knew it wasn't right, particularly not right after a major heart attack.
I awoke with a start. It was still dark. Something was going on. My mom was yelling. I jumped up and ran down the hall to my parents' room. Mom was on the phone. Dad was on the floor. In what was surely less than an eighth of a second I knew what had happened: Dad had had a stroke, and it was very bad. His legs were folded under him. He was sitting up, and his eyes were vacantly looking around the room. I ran to his side and quickly assessed the situation. I knew immediately that he would not recover. He tried to speak: "I wannnn . . . I wannnna . . . I wannn . . ." Nothing more could come from his once eloquent lips. I tried so hard to communicate with him, but he was so frustrated because he couldn't make the words come out, and I clearly wasn't understanding him. I thought he wanted to move from his position, but I knew I shouldn't move him.
Mom was on the phone with 911. The ambulance was on its way. I had to run down the hall and turn on all the lights, open the door. Did that take forever, or was it just 18 seconds?
Mom was on the phone with 911. The ambulance was on its way. I had to run down the hall and turn on all the lights, open the door. Did that take forever, or was it just 18 seconds?
That DAMNED FOOL!!! Why wouldn't he let me take him to the hospital last night??? (This is the question that has plagued me for a year now! Will this question rest on my shoulders for the rest of my life? Was this his final cruelty to me, after a lifetime of not accepting me?)
And I was back by his side again, calming him, stroking his hair, holding his hand, trying to pretend that my world wasn't turning upside down all over again, holding back the vomit that kept threatening to come, speaking calmly to my daddy, like he was my child. What did he even comprehend at this point? Was he my 81 year old father, or was he a child now? What was left of his brain? I could see very little in his eyes . . . very little of the man I had so longed for, the man I had spent my life fighting to gain favor with. He was already slipping rapidly away from me. I was losing my opportunity to MAKE him love me and accept me as I was. I had failed. He would never see me for who I really was! The despair and gravity of the moment threatened to swallow me whole.
And there was my mom, the love of her life on the floor beside me, slipping away from her in mortality. What right did I have to such selfish thoughts? All of my own personal regard was stuffed down inside me as the EMTs arrived. There would be plenty of time to wallow in self-pity later. This was not my time.
There was blood. I don't know where it came from. It was evident when the EMTs lifted him to the gurney. It didn't shock me. I guess that was because I was already in shock, already on automatic pilot. We got ready to go to the hospital right after the ambulance left. Mom took awhile. She was definitely in shock. I think we all just knew. I told mom what I knew - I told her Dad had a stroke, and I didn't think it looked very good, but that Darrin's step-dad recovered quite a bit after his "really-bad" stroke, so we should wait and see. Jim, my brother, who had also had a stroke before, drove to the hospital. I didn't cry yet.
And there was my mom, the love of her life on the floor beside me, slipping away from her in mortality. What right did I have to such selfish thoughts? All of my own personal regard was stuffed down inside me as the EMTs arrived. There would be plenty of time to wallow in self-pity later. This was not my time.
There was blood. I don't know where it came from. It was evident when the EMTs lifted him to the gurney. It didn't shock me. I guess that was because I was already in shock, already on automatic pilot. We got ready to go to the hospital right after the ambulance left. Mom took awhile. She was definitely in shock. I think we all just knew. I told mom what I knew - I told her Dad had a stroke, and I didn't think it looked very good, but that Darrin's step-dad recovered quite a bit after his "really-bad" stroke, so we should wait and see. Jim, my brother, who had also had a stroke before, drove to the hospital. I didn't cry yet.
In the ER, they didn't give Dad the stroke medicine. I couldn't figure out why. WHY? They said they wanted to put it right into his brain, because of where the stroke was. They tried. They couldn't. Turns out his veins in his neck were very "tortuous", or twisty. They couldn't get to his brain. They couldn't give him the meds that were supposed to break up the clot in his brain. They admitted him to the ICU.
He was very agitated most of the time. He was able to say a few words. He kept saying, very slowly, over and over, "I . . . want . . . to . . . go . . . home". We kept telling him he had to stay and get better first, and then he could go home. He would look frustrated and shake his head. Finally, my mom and I talked it over, and we realized that he wasn't telling us he wanted to go back to the house. He was telling us he was ready to die. After he had been saying it for over a day, he said it again. My mom and my sister were there, and I asked him "Dad, are you telling us that you're ready to die?" He looked right into my eyes and focused really clearly, took a deep breath, smiled and nodded deeply. We all wept. I told him that would be ok. I promised him that I would take care of my mom, and that any time he was ready, he could go home. He took a deep breath, and just sighed so deeply. He was clearly relieved. After that he wasn't agitated anymore. My mom stayed by his side as much as she could. They held hands all the time. When he would fall asleep, his hand would slip from hers, and she would rest. When he woke up, his hand would automatically seek hers out, and she would reach for him. They were married for 63 years. The last thing he said to her was "I love you tons." and she said "I love you tons too."
That night he had another severe stroke. He was not able to speak again after that, and began to rapidly deteriorate.
My dad had no wish to prolong his life artificially. My mom knew his desires. Still it was a very painful decision. We all talked it over as a family when the doctor told us he would continue to have more strokes, and that he would not recover. I was the final hold-out, I guess, still holding on to some desperate hope that my daddy would come around for me. I just didn't want to let go of that hope. In the end, I knew that it was not my decision to make. He had made the decision for me on the night he wouldn't let me take him back to the hospital, the night he went to bed and had that stupid stroke. He took it out of my hands then.
They removed all life support and monitoring from my dad, and friends and family gathered near. It took another couple of days before he finally passed, but his spirit wasn't really there. I spent the majority of my time there, by his side, waiting for him to go. I held his hands, washed his face, brushed his hair. I put lip balm on his parched lips and helped the nurses clear mucous from his lungs. I kissed his beautiful hands - those hands that had carried me, held me, picked me up when I had fallen, those hands that had worked to sustain his family all his life. And I was helpless as a kitten. I could do nothing for him - nothing but sit and wait for the Lord to decide it was time for the end to come.
He was very agitated most of the time. He was able to say a few words. He kept saying, very slowly, over and over, "I . . . want . . . to . . . go . . . home". We kept telling him he had to stay and get better first, and then he could go home. He would look frustrated and shake his head. Finally, my mom and I talked it over, and we realized that he wasn't telling us he wanted to go back to the house. He was telling us he was ready to die. After he had been saying it for over a day, he said it again. My mom and my sister were there, and I asked him "Dad, are you telling us that you're ready to die?" He looked right into my eyes and focused really clearly, took a deep breath, smiled and nodded deeply. We all wept. I told him that would be ok. I promised him that I would take care of my mom, and that any time he was ready, he could go home. He took a deep breath, and just sighed so deeply. He was clearly relieved. After that he wasn't agitated anymore. My mom stayed by his side as much as she could. They held hands all the time. When he would fall asleep, his hand would slip from hers, and she would rest. When he woke up, his hand would automatically seek hers out, and she would reach for him. They were married for 63 years. The last thing he said to her was "I love you tons." and she said "I love you tons too."
That night he had another severe stroke. He was not able to speak again after that, and began to rapidly deteriorate.
My dad had no wish to prolong his life artificially. My mom knew his desires. Still it was a very painful decision. We all talked it over as a family when the doctor told us he would continue to have more strokes, and that he would not recover. I was the final hold-out, I guess, still holding on to some desperate hope that my daddy would come around for me. I just didn't want to let go of that hope. In the end, I knew that it was not my decision to make. He had made the decision for me on the night he wouldn't let me take him back to the hospital, the night he went to bed and had that stupid stroke. He took it out of my hands then.
They removed all life support and monitoring from my dad, and friends and family gathered near. It took another couple of days before he finally passed, but his spirit wasn't really there. I spent the majority of my time there, by his side, waiting for him to go. I held his hands, washed his face, brushed his hair. I put lip balm on his parched lips and helped the nurses clear mucous from his lungs. I kissed his beautiful hands - those hands that had carried me, held me, picked me up when I had fallen, those hands that had worked to sustain his family all his life. And I was helpless as a kitten. I could do nothing for him - nothing but sit and wait for the Lord to decide it was time for the end to come.
It was the second most sorrowful parting of my life.
And now, here I am, a year later. I keep thinking this will get easier! Somehow, shouldn't the blow soften, become easier? Shouldn't the fact that my daddy disowned me several years ago cease to be so terribly, terribly painful? Don't you think I would have stopped referring to him as "my daddy"? Why doesn't this broken hearted little girl just grow up? I have a husband who adores me, and three lovely children who think the world of me! Why can't that just be enough???
Why am I still weeping over the father who never approved of me, who died a year ago? Why, when I know I will never gain his favor in this life, is my heart still breaking over all of this? And how do I find a path toward healing?
Somehow I must find a way to dance . . .
And now, here I am, a year later. I keep thinking this will get easier! Somehow, shouldn't the blow soften, become easier? Shouldn't the fact that my daddy disowned me several years ago cease to be so terribly, terribly painful? Don't you think I would have stopped referring to him as "my daddy"? Why doesn't this broken hearted little girl just grow up? I have a husband who adores me, and three lovely children who think the world of me! Why can't that just be enough???
Why am I still weeping over the father who never approved of me, who died a year ago? Why, when I know I will never gain his favor in this life, is my heart still breaking over all of this? And how do I find a path toward healing?
Somehow I must find a way to dance . . .
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