Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes

Mom and Dad. One our first family snapshots.
I'm the one at left. Under Mom's shirt

(That's by Gloria Naylor, btw.)

It is Father's Day.

This is always a bittersweet day of recognition for me. My father died many years ago when I was 18 years old. He was 39. Thirty-nine. He died of a malignant brain tumor that had been taking its terrible toll for a bit more than a year. His death was bane and blessing. Blessing because his suffering - and that of those who loved and agonized in watching over him - was over. Bane because his physical life - and one aspect of life for those who loved him - was over.

But to clarify, a different type of suffering for those who remained after my father's death had just begun. A period of crazy contradictions. I had a feeling of being beaten, of standing in a vacuum with battered mind, body and soul. Of feeling at once on fire with pain, and frozen from numbness. Time stood still, and yet it had a way of tenderly and joyfully and agonizingly moving backward, making me watch my time with him move back and forth like a silent movie - viewing laughter I knew must sound like happiness, seeing whispers I remember made me smile. And time would push me forward into a future that was an empty room where I stood and stared at one wall and was angry and petrified. I would turn and look at another wall of that empty room and be sad, and watch Dad walk down the steps outside my bedroom window, that traversed the space from the lawn to the patio of the walk-out basement of our home, and he would put his hand above his eyes to peer in at me in the shadow of the early morning sunshine and say, "Mornin' daughter-son!" I tried to respond but no words would come out of me. This flickered on that wall of my grief like the projection of a home movie.

There was the wall that held my fantasies:
• Me in England on a trip and walking into a pub and a waiter turns around to take my order and my father and I share shocked expressions at seeing one another; he whisks me to a back alley to tell me his story of being a spy (like James Bond) and how he had to leave us abruptly for reasons of national security and our safety, and is undercover to find those responsible for such horrible threats. I help him solve this issue and return home with him. There is much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Me as a doctor in a large hospital where I become lost in a maze of hallways and wards and erratic overhead lighting and discover a pristine, white room with blinding light where my father sits in white clothing and is playing chess, and turns his head with its scalp of chestnut hair (which we did not see for much of his last year of life) and looks at me quizzically, though with a flicker of recognition. I learn he is part of a group of patients with fast-growing and destructive brain tumors who underwent an experimental treatment that has taken years to provide recovery. While the treatment has eradicated the tumor and is regrowing his brain, it has damaged his memory. AND ... unfortunately the hospital forgot about his special ward, so he has been lost. I help him regain his memory and return home with him to much fanfare, and we are reunited as a family.
• Actually there are many of these scenarios. I am riding a bike in Chicago and turn a corner and run him over and find out he was kidnapped and living as a smelly, unwashed hostage. I save him by using amazing martial arts on his oppressor. Or, he was at sea on a treasure-hunting boat, was thrown overboard by a great storm and washed up on an island, where I find him while on a cruise. (The Tom Hanks movie "Castaway" was a bit surreal for me.) You may notice a "rescuer" or "hero" theme going on here, which results from feelings of guilt. There has never been a reason for me to feel guilty, and it is all self-imposed. I don't think it is an unusual feeling for survivors. You just have to spend a lot of time in therapy and bars to get over it. (Kidding! Kind of!)

Then there was the wall in my room of grief that was blank. Just blank. I often stared at this wall for far too long.

In truth, my dad would be highly entertained at some of these notions. He was imaginative and creative and fun. He would also be sad. He was a man who, when he was alive, was very alive, and wanted everyone to be happy. Of course, that is what a self-involved teenager assessed of her still-young father.

I thought I was all grown up when he died, but we all know that I was not. Such life experiences have a way of making one mature in very awkward ways, and yet leave one stunted in others. Sometimes it takes a lot of time and some serious screw-ups to make all those "ways" plait themselves into some braid of normalcy. I don't know. I'm just blabbering at times. But I suppose all of this blabber is a way to honor my father by expressing myself in the way I know best: writing it out. I used to write him stories when I was little. And he had plenty of stories himself. In fact, I come from a long line of story-tellers.

I feel I came to terms with his death quite some time ago, but that doesn't mean I am not still a bit sad that he didn't get to meet my sons, or my daughter-in-law, or Jacquelyn Jean. I have a variety of beliefs in regard to his spirit, of if I shall see him again, or if he exists in a way that makes him supernaturally aware of us here on Earth. I won't bore you with the details, if even it is possible for me to effectively express my beliefs. But I will say that I am also happy this day  -  to have such a father. I know I am more lucky than some. And early this morning, while Danger was still sleeping, I drove down to the Wynoose bottoms where I know he spent a lot of his life along the river and in the woods and I talked to him. He's been telling me to get the hell out of here and try out some new adventures. I am thinking maybe I shall.

Who knows, he might just tag along for the ride. Now that would be a great story.

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