As the death anniversary approaches, I can feel it. Grief, once again, is roaming about my house. My mind replays images of the moment I learned of his death. The green recliner I was sitting in, the blue robe I was wearing, the look on the police officers face, and the echoing sound of my cry. It is as if no time has passed since that moment. But I cannot let this scene replay itself over and over again. I can sit with my grief and feel it but I do not want to be stuck in that moment, that evening, and the many other rough days that followed. Instead, I have decided to write some of my memories. It is in these images that I seek comfort. I want to reside in each of these scenes because they are so vivid and full of life. There is sweetness in these memories. But it is more than remembering, it is feeling. I feel loved by my dad and I know he is not gone. As I reminisce, it is as if no time has passed since each of THESE moments.
As an adult, we would have belching matches when no one was around (except my mother. She became the referee) I always won. I am aware this is probably a shocker for those who knew him well. He was always so well mannered. I often brought out his playfulness. Making my dad laugh or getting him to regress was one of my life’s many missions. On several occasions, mission accomplished.
He could play the piano by ear. I never heard him play any kind of instrument until the summer of my 4th grade year. He sat down, poked at the keys for a bit, and then sat down and played Star Spangled Banner. He called me over to the piano bench and taught me how to play that song. We sat there for hours. I loved sitting next to him on that bench.
He had very strong hands. I remember when I was really young and visited him at his jobsite. It smelled of fresh cut wood. He had a hammer in his hands and I observed how his veins were bulging out. I often compared my hands to his. Mine were so small and fair. His were big and tan. I had hoped that mine would be strong like his when I grew up.
I remember him picking me up from school and taking me to this Mexican restaurant in Van Nuys, California. He begged me to try this thing called a chimichanga. I was a picky eater and recall being a bit frightened by this strange looking burrito. I loved it! After that enlightening experience, we returned to this hole in the wall restaurant once a week. When I moved in with him, he learned how to make chimichangas. He would make them like clockwork for the next 10 years. As I got older, we changed up our routine. We’d go to different Mexican restaurants, order chimichangas, and would rate them on a scale of 1 to 5. Was it crispy enough? Did it contain all the right ingredients? Many hours went into discussing this most delicious cuisine. We decided no chimichanga was as good as the one in Van Nuys. We became chimichanga connoisseurs.
I was in high school and me and my friends had gathered in the kitchen gabbing about this, that, or the other. We somehow began complaining of our monthly cycles. My dad sat silently at the kitchen table, trying not to listen to our conversation. He had heard plenty of girly stuff over the years, but this particular time his patience and endurance had run out. He got up quickly and said in a bellowing tone “My God, I can’t listen to this anymore.” We all giggled as he stomped down the hallway into his bedroom to watch TV.
My most recent memories and some of the most comforting to me are from our very last visit. It was just the two of us. He told me to go to the closest gas station so he could put gas in my van. He insisted he purchase snow tires for us because he was concerned about me and my family driving in Colorado snowstorms. We then went to one of our most sacred places, the ice cream shop. While standing in line at Baskin Robbins, we argued about who was going to pay. I insisted I pay. My belching may have beat his, but his stubbornness always beat mine. He told me to back down. He said “Kim, I am your dad.” He didn’t let me pay for one thing during that visit. Not one thing.
It is odd how grief feels like fear and for me it sometimes goes a step further. I admit…… I am paranoid. Now I don’t believe aliens are abducting me when I am fast asleep, but I do find myself wondering if there is some conspiracy led by the universe to take my roots away from me. I also wonder what people must think of me now that they’ve seen me at the worst time of my life. Do they think I am crazy? My self worth can go from an all time high to an all time low in a matter of seconds. It seems that I take things personally now. My thoughts are so irrational and they evoke such intense feelings that I push people away or close myself off. It is as if I am preparing for everyone I come in contact with to die. I don’t ever want that knock on my door again. I don’t want to be left.
In addition to my sometimes conscious or unconscious attempt to avoid any further loss in my life, I question myself about everything. Obviously because here I am writing this ridiculous post questioning everything I write. Everything I feel. Everything I think. I can’t make my mind up about anything. Choosing onion rings or fries with my burger seems like a life or death decision. I am paralyzed by decisions. Will it be the right decision? What if it is too late? I can’t go back. There are no do overs.
The worst part of my paranoia is that I am sometimes wait for the the next bad thing. It is like I am Jimmy Stewart in the movie Rear Window. I sit and wait, peering out my window wondering what catastrophic thing is going to happen next. Could I have prevented it? What if I had done this or that. I am paralyzed by the what if’s. What is worse than that is believing I need to be punished. For what do I need to be punished? I am not sure. My regrets? How I’ve managed to cope? That I wasn’t a better daughter? A better friend? That I didn’t keep it together good enough? I should have cried less, or more? Been further along by now? Kept to myself or reach out more? Been more in touch with my faith? This is the game I play in my head. I know this post may sound just as ridiculous as aliens and a universal anti-Kim campaign (or at least I hope it does).
The Lonely Year (followed by the year of shock and panic)
Sometimes, my grief still feels like fear.
The sound of an oxygen machine makes me want to look for him and then…..I cry.
I haven’t gone a day without thinking about my dad, my friend, and the other losses I experienced that first year.
I still have mounds of regret.
I often experience an anger that I cannot label or describe.
It feels like a part of me is missing.
The shock and panic of his death is subsiding but now I am left with missing him so much that my heart sometimes hurt. I mean literally hurts.
I am seeing the impact it has had on my children. My eldest daughter called me from school saying “mommy, I feel like something bad is going to happen, like when grandpa died.”
Spiritually, I am a complete mess.
I still am way more vulnerable than I’d like to admit.
I have had to revisit my past and try to face things that have been frightening.
The lonely year had its share of struggles, but I can’t deny some of the amazing things that have been born from my grief. They say that sometimes death is an end but it can also represent a beginning. A rebirth.
I have comforting dreams of my dad. We hang out and talk. I wake up happy.
A year ago I found out I have a sister and a nephew. When I was convinced my roots were slowly being yanked from me, I was given back roots that are in my blood.
I was on CBS4 news and had the honor of telling the Mile High City about my dad Bud Thompson.
I ran a marathon. 26.2 miles and all the way (blisters, vomit, and head exhaustion) he ran right alone side of me. I proudly held his picture up as I crossed the finish line. My promise was fulfilled.
I have learned more about my dad in his death than I did in his life. I think he meant for it to be that way.
I have the most amazing job now. My co-workers inspire me and believe in me.
I have found myself: going to baseball games, camping, listening to jazz, and drinking coffee every morning. It is true….my dad is a part of me.
I have realized the depth of my mom’s beauty, my husbands love, and how I’d sacrifice anything for my daughters to be happy.
I have solid, loyal, and trustworthy friends. They have been with me in my darkest hours expecting nothing from me. They were just there. Thank God for them.
I am writing to everyone and no one. I want to write this for myself. On the other hand, I want to shout my story of Bud to everyone. On the anniversary of his death, it would be easy for me to write all about my pain as I have done in previous posts. But it is not the intensity of my loss that I want the world to know today. I want everyone to know him. Yet, I want to be the keeper of his memories. It was just the two of us for the majority of my childhood. However, for those who came in contact with him, caught a glimpse of what a truly amazing person and father he was.
As I write this, my dad would be appalled. His humility often got in the way. He would want me to write about his granddaughters, abused animals, intolerance, or the paranormal. But, I will save those topics for another time. Today it is about him. I must repeat myself and tell you about Burl Glen Thompson. He was brilliant. A genius. He was curious. He had an extraordinary gentleness. He never said one hurtful word to me. Every time I told him what I wanted to be when I grew up, he would say “you can be whatever you want.”
He was quiet and others may have thought he was stoic, but he felt deeply. He had the compassion of a saint. In my book, he is. As a friend described him “he was as solid as an oak tree. He sat still and took the world in.” He appreciated nature and nature loved him.
He was a stay at home dad. My world was his world. He had physical limitations. Instead, he relied on his mental capabilities. He was slow, but when he had to he moved fast. Despite the difficulties between him and my mom, he never said one bad word about her. He gave up dreams so that I might get a shot at them.
So today for everyone, I hope I captured some of his life and the legacy he has left behind. I hope you know him now. But for no one but me, I am the blessed keeper of those father daughter memories. He is my dad and that is how it was meant to be.
My family had recently taken a trip to California. I was reveling in a quiet house and having the bed all to myself. It was a bit chilly that night so I had turned on my electric blanket a little to high. I was tossing and turning because I was too hot. I threw off the blanket and sat up to turn the heat down. I looked up and couldn’t believe what I saw. I thought to my self “Am I hallucinating?” “Have I gone completely mad?” I then wondered whether or not I was dreaming. There he was standing at the foot of my bed. He was wearing his faded jeans and plaid shirt with the blue and yellow stripes. He wasn’t wearing his oxygen or as my daughter called it, his tail. It was one thing to see him standing at the foot of my bed but it was another thing to hear him talk. He said to me “Kim, I know you are having a hard time sleeping because you are uncomfortable. I am going to open a window for you to let some cool air in.” He smiled at me and had a genuine concerned look on his face. I have seen that look on his face a million times. When I had any kind of ailment, even a headache, he would have this worried look on his face. I specifically remember that look when I was in labor with my oldest. He always was on a mission to fix whatever problem afflicted me. From my car, to my worries, to broken windows in my house. Even in his death, he is trying to fix things for me. So after he smiled at me, I watched him walk to my window and then he disappeared. I cried out loud “dad, please don’t go.” I sat there and the tears began to roll down my cheek not because I was frightened, but because I had spent a few precious seconds with my dad. After the tears dried up, I went to turn down my electric blanket and well….it had been turned off. I am not going to go as far as saying my father’s ghost came to visit me and adjusted my electric blanket. But regardless of what it was or wasn’t, he still watches over me.
My dad always managed to keep the monsters away. Some of them real and others imagined. I won’t bore you with my fears of vampires and Freddy Krueger. Obviously they don’t exist. Rather I will write of one dark creature that did exist.
This monster’s name was Richard.
He was my mom’s boyfriend for ten plus years. He has other nicknames but they are too vulgar for me to post. He was terribly abusive to my mother and his own children.
The scary thing about him was his tirades were never instigated by an outside source, such as drugs or alcohol. His cruelty existed naturally.
So after spending months living in his hell along with his other captives (my mom and his children), I managed to escape. I was only 8 years old. I had found freedom and had moved in with my dad.
Clyfford Still, "Untitled (Fear)" (1945)
Years went by and my mom would leave Monster every now and then. She would eventually return, and his venom continued to spew.* He made it a point to threaten all of those who he felt were attempting to usurp his power over my mom. He made threatening phone calls to my dad and other family members. Some threats were to beat us all up and other threats were to kill us. I don’t recall the specific details of what really went on. I do, however, remember watching my sweet grandmother cry after speaking to Monster on the phone. God knows what he said to her that day.
Wanting to protect my grandmother and fearing for my safety, my dad and I left grandma’s sanctuary, homeless. That whole summer we lived in either a hotel or in our brown and green station wagon. When the threats died down, we headed north. We pitched our tent in the little town of Yreka, far away from L.A. and from bad memories. He wanted a fresh start for us. He told me he could easily lose me in a big city and preferred a small town so he could keep an eye on me.
Looking back on the events of that summer, I don’t recall one time being afraid of Monster or any other ones for that matter. I always felt safe with my dad. To me he was the strongest man alive. He fought battles that I never knew about until I was much older. He had a way of keeping the scary things of this world at bay.
I wasn’t sheltered but I never lived in fear.
Since that summer, I have come into contact with other types of monsters (luckily, none like Richard (aka “Asshole”)). But it hasn’t been until now that they have found their way in my closet or under my bed. Some are real and some have only been conjured up in my head. My warrior is no longer here to chase them away.
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*My mom did eventually escape Monster for good in 1989.
My grief and I have been residing in dark, dark places. I often have wondered whether I will succumb to this abyss or find my way out.
I have lost my faith these past 10 months. Everything I believed has been rattled and tossed about. I have been on a search for answers. My dad always teased me because I was incessant about “why?” I could never just settle for the simple answer. He would say “because” and that just wasn’t good enough for me. It would force us into long discussions that he was never prepared for. But he always gave me an answer that would satisfy me, or at least for a little bit.
Well, I am at it again. Why? Why? Why? Why? He is not here to say, “because, because, because, because.” He cannot give me the answers. I must find them for myself.
I have grown tired of being alone in these dark places. I know that the only thing that is going to help me find my way out will be my faith. There is no human being, alcoholic beverage, sleeping pill, or memory that is going to reach down and bring me back out. For me, it must be God. I want it to be God.
Just in realizing this, I am finding myself looking at a glimmer of light. I am comforted by it. I am seeing what my father saw in me. I am seeing the kind of faith he had. Just a little.
Maybe with my faith, I will not just crawl out of the abyss, but walk out. Finally, with my head held high and my grief at my side rather than on my back, I will become more of the person I was meant to be. Maybe, I will finally be at peace with the simple answer of “because.”
It was a perfect day to take the dogs for a walk. So my parents had Bogie, Lassie, Daphne, and Sally. By the way, those are the names of their greyhounds. Except Daphne. Se is a whippit who wears pajamas.
But me, no! I was walking a cow.
It was brown with a white face. It walked along quietly as we headed down a busy street in hopes to find a grassy area with some shade. My cow was docile. No need to pull on the leash or yell commands such as sit, stay, or lay down. It didn’t leave my side. I observed the stares from passers by, but it didn’t bother me none. I was content with the cow by my side.
Our nice afternoon stroll then takes a turn for the worst. My mother is sitting on the grass with the dogs, and I am sitting next to my cow. I ask my mom, “Hey, where is dad?” I walk up a small hill to look for him. The dogs, the cow, and my mom are in the distance. I cannot see them, but I know they are there. I look for my dad. I am frantic now because he is gone.
My eye catches a police car. I think, “No. That can’t be him.” But my eyes have not deceived me. My dad is being handcuffed by the police. He glances over at me. His expression speaks words that he cannot. He tells me he doesn’t want to leave me. I begin to cry.
The scene then shifts to my parents’ house. I am relieved to see that my dad is home. I am following him from one room to the next. I ask him about his time in jail. He assures me that they ended up taking him to the hospital and fixing him. He tells me that he needed some readjustments and that everything is okay now. I believe him, as I always do.
I know it is so boring to hear other people’s dreams. But this is probably the most significant dream since my father’s death. I could spend pages writing about the many interpretations my husband and I have come up with. But rather than give you the long version, I will give you the short one. In this dream, I was able to be present when he disappeared, he communicated that he didn’t want to leave me, and then he came back readjusted. He reminded me that he was not gone.
Now the cow…I haven’t the faintest idea. In the Hindu religion a cow is sacred for the life it gives through its milk. It is revered, not worshipped. Why was I walking a cow? Does it represent my grief? My faith? Myself? Maybe it means nothing. Sometimes a cow is just a cow.
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P.S. There’s a great song by Daniel Johnston called “Walking the Cow.” I’m not sure it relates to my dream, but I think it might. Here’s a video of Eddie Vedder singing it. You can hear the original version here.
I have had a few questions for grief.
Why is it that I once was capable, but now I am unable?
I once was independent, now I am smothering others?
I once felt beautiful, I now feel ugly?
I once persevered, I now want to give up?
I once was on the right path, I now feel as if I’ve strayed?
I once felt secure, now I don’t feel safe?
I once was strong, now I am weak?
I once was connected, now I am detached?
Grief did not answer my questions. Instead it shoved my face into a mirror and hollered “Who the hell are you?”
I said “Grief, I don’t know. I am lost. I am nowhere.”
The time has come to find my way back.
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