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.
My dad was somewhat mysterious. Even after living with him for 17 years, I could never guess what he was thinking or feeling. He wasn’t very demonstrative of his feelings. I think I saw him cry twice and get really angry once. He had a striking smile but rarely could I get him to laugh. However, I did see him belly laugh a few times while watching Beavis and Butthead.
Rather than wearing his feelings on his sleeve, he tucked them underneath layers and layers of clothing. I rarely received hugs growing up. When he did hug me it was done in a robotic manner. He also wasn’t good at telling me he loved me. Again, I was left to guess. Does he love me? Does he approve of me? Is he sad that I am leaving home and going off to college?
After I went off to college, I observed friends with their parents and wondered, “why doesn’t my dad hug me or tell me he loves me?” I often thought that there was something wrong with me.
I confided in Crazy Aunt (more on her later), explaining to her how I felt angry at my dad for not doing what so many other parents do. She said something to me that forever changed my perspective on my dad’s inability to communicate his feelings.
She told me, “Kim, next time you are with your dad, I want you to watch how he looks at you.”
We were at a restaurant having breakfast with some of my parents’ friends. I was engaged in a heated political conversation with one of them. I was very passionate about my opinion and made it known to his friends (and probably the entire restaurant!) I thought for sure he was going to be embarrassed by my stubborn behavior. I glanced over at him to see if he was hiding under the table, but he was sitting tall with a huge grin on his face. I saw The Look. He loved me. He may not have been touchy feely, but he displayed his love in so many other ways. It just took me a while to figure it out.
It wasn’t because he didn’t want to hug me or tell me he loved me, but he didn’t know how. The last five years of his life he began to learn. He started hugging me at every visit. Every time we would hang up after a long or even brief phone conversation, he told me he loved me. About five days before he died, we had our last conversation. His last words were “I love you” and mine were “I love you too.”
I am: a mother, wife, friend, neighbor, psychotherapist, employee, runner(sort of), registered democrat, and well….. sometimes crazy. There is not much more to this list because I am not as complicated as I would like to think I am. But before I was any of these things, I was and am my father’s daughter. After 37 years, how do I identify myself apart from his physical presence? He has a lot to do with who I have become. Now what? A huge part of me is now gone. In the words of the great philosophers Supertramp…. I know it sounds absurd but please tell me who I am.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I had this existential question completely figured out before his death. However, who I am made much more sense with him in my world.
Since his departure, I have had some people tell me I am different. My own children have commented on how their mommy has changed. I am not sure if it is a good thing or a bad thing. In my grief stricken perspective, it often feels like a bad thing. I do feel different somehow. I am much more confused about who I am in a context that now doesn’t include him. Does grief allow a person to return to their old self? If not, how will I be redefined? Will my family and friends like this person? Will I? Would my dad?
I had P.E. first thing in the morning during my Freshman year in high school. I loathed PE but even more so at 8am (I thought THAT was early). What made this already dreadful experience worse was that we had to run around the track every day for an entire semester. I would complain with every step I took. I complained about how my legs hurt, I couldn’t breathe, it was cold, and please when will it be over. I know this drove my friends crazy. I really hated exercise.
So the shocker in all of this, is that two years ago I decided to step outside of my office at work and run. On that first day, I tried to see how far I could go. I lasted about one block. I was panting and with every breath it felt like someone was punching me in my lungs. I didn’t give up and each day I ran a little further. I finally reached my first mile EVER! Then my second, third, and so on. Then, to my surprise, I experienced the runner’s high. Who needs drugs when you’ve got that!
Feeling on top of the world, I decided to put myself to the test. I had never really challenged myself. So, I signed up for the Denver Half Marathon. My confidence wavered at times and would have these long debates in my head. I thought, “There is no way I can do this. What the heck am I thinking? Who do I think I am?” However, there was also a part of me that remembered adversities I have faced and overcome in my life. Why not this? I shared my plans with family and friends. I thought they’d tell me I was crazy and I should start with something small. I received no advice of the kind. Instead, I had tons of support. When I told my dad (my biggest fan) what I was wanting to do, he said, “Go for it Kim.” Of all people who knew me best and could have said, “are you sure you want to do this, you hate exercise?” Instead, he sent me tons of articles relating to running. These articles included how to improve your speed, avoid injuries, and eat properly.
So for six months, with my new found knowledge, I trained and trained and trained. I woke up at the crack of dawn and I ran. I learned all the running lingo, bought a fuel belt, learned how to eat GU packs without having to taste them, and went through a few pairs of shoes.
A month before the Denver Half Marathon, my dad came for a visit. I was losing my motivation. Allergies had hit me and I struggled with my breathing. I didn’t think I was capable. My dad and I had a long conversation during his visit. I told him I was discouraged and was questioning my ability. I can see it now, he was sitting in the green chair and I was on the couch. He told me that I had what it takes. During that conversation, I also confessed that someday I wanted to do a full marathon. I was waiting for the “now don’t get ahead of yourself,” but that didn’t happen. He told me, “Kim, I know you will make it happen”.
I was inspired by his words and sure enough on October 14th, 2007, I ran 13.1 miles. I ran through the freezing rain, wind, hills, 5280 elevation, losing my glove and GU pack. By the way, I have never been so freaking cold! I couldn’t feel my extremities and thought some of my fingers would have to be amputated. But, I pressed on, thinking of my dad’s encouraging words. I kept thinking of how he believed in me. During the race I passed a guy on the sidewalk who was cheering the runners. He stepped out and called out my number “Hey 4787, today is your day! And so it was. I crossed the finish line.
My dad told me weeks before he passed how proud he was of my running and that couldn’t wait to see my first marathon. I get choked up just thinking of how he won’t be there. My dad always made me feel like I could do anything. But, in the midst of my grief, I have thought of giving up on this dream all together. The physical toll it has taken on me has left me with little confidence in my ability. But I will not give up. I must run it for me. I must run it for him. I must run it for my daughters so they will know to not give up when faced with life’s challenges. So when the day comes for me to do 26.2, I will be wearing a shirt and on the back it will say “this one’s for you dad.” I will run across that finish line and I will picture him standing there. He will hug me and say “Kim, I knew you could make it happen.”
Much of my blog is about documenting my pain, but rather than talk about me tonight, I want to share my dad with you. These are some things, I think are important to know about him.
He was born in 1939, Escondido, CA. He had an older brother who is eight years his senior. His brother was the talker; he, on the other hand, was very quiet
He enjoyed music and played the trombone in the high school band.
As a teenager, he would ditch school and sneak his way into jazz clubs in Newport and Laguna Beach. One of his favorite albums was Lighthouse at Laguna by Howard Rumsey.
He enjoyed baseball and played during middle and high school. He was also good at football. In general he moved very slowly. People didn’t know this was a trick. Once he got the ball he would fly across the football field like a bolt of lightning.
My uncle, his brother, described him as a rebel without a cause. He had the James Dean look. Behind the school building, he was smoking, drinking, and gambling. The white t-shirt with the rolled up cigarettes on his sleeve. One would never guess during his rebellious years that his appearance was just mask. The real Bud was a thinker. He enjoyed reading philosophy, history, literature. He was also good at mathematics and would spend his leisure time in a math book.
He drove a cab with his father for many years.
He could have finished college but he lacked self confidence.
He was married three times.
He became a surveyor and helped build many of the LA freeways. He also did carpentry work on the side. He could fix anything.
He enjoyed camping, fishing, and boating. He had a tremendous respect for nature.
When someone would ask him questions, he would take long pauses before he would answer. Oh how that drove me crazy.
He grew up in a very strict religious household, but he did not like organized religion and rarely went to church. But he had an unmovable faith and knew scripture by heart.
He was the only one in the circle of his animal loving friends who could tame a horse, bring a shy abused greyhound out of its shell, or nuture an animal back to full health.
He loved the show McGyver, the singer/song writer Neil Diamond, The Simpsons, X-Files, Ghost Hunters, documentaries, and Celine Dion. (I guess he is allowed some imperfections!)
He hated flying and refused to get on an airplane.
He had a deep baritone voice. He sang quite well. My only memory of him singing was at Christmas one year. He sang “Silent Night.” It was beautiful.
He let a high school friend of mine live with us for a few months because of her unstable home life.
He beat me at every game from Monopoly, to Yahtzee, and canasta.
When he laughed he moved his shoulders up and down. It was hard to get him to laugh but when you did get him to laugh, it was like winning an Oscar.
He loved ice cream and had the biggest freaking bowl I had ever seen. It now sits in my kitchen cabinet.
Expensive hair products were important to him. He may have only had one pair of jeans, but his hair had to look and feel good.
He went bankrupt for me to go to college, never complained about having to raise me alone, never complained about his health, and always had something uplifting to say.
He was the most wonderful dad, husband, father in law, grandfather, friend, brother in law, son, and pet owner. The world has been blessed having him in it.
As I walked into the house, I noticed that the walls had been painted burgundy and off-white. There were new pictures on the wall. Greyhounds of course. The furniture had been moved around. My mom said she needed to make her living room look bigger. As I stood there I began to feel like somewhat of a stranger in my parents’ house.
I walked into his bedroom, which is now a guestroom, and it too had been painted and the furniture rearranged. The walls are now turquoise blue and beige, my dad’s favorite colors. As I stood in the middle of his bedroom, I had to fight the urge to run out of the room and ask my mom, “What have you done?” I knew she needed to make these changes, but I couldn’t help my initial reaction. I guess I thought if things remained the same, it meant he would be coming back.
I knew in my rational mind that he was gone. But if he was not coming back I could at least have some kind of contact with him. So I slept in his room, in his bed, wearing his favorite greyhound sweatshirt. By the way, I have always resisted wearing dog shirts, sweatshirts, hats, socks, etc. My rebellion to this has always worked in my favor until now. I finally gave into my mom and put the silly sweatshirt on. She lured me by saying, “it was your dad’s favorite.” I hoped that wearing his sweatshirt would increase my chances of communicating with him. Seems kind of silly now that I think of it. What seems even more silly is that I found some comfort wearing it.
The first night I spent in his room, I was anticipating a visit from my dad. In my grief stricken state of mind, I was hoping that the house was haunted. I thought my EVP machines and infrared cameras would catch the evidence that my dad is still there. (I really don’t have these gadgets, but I like to pretend that I do.)
However, I came to the realization that the house is not at all haunted. It is me who is haunted. Every moment, whether I am in the house or not, I am haunted by memories of my father. He continually reappears in my mind. I did not need the machines or cameras to hunt for my father. Nor did I need the furniture moved back to their original place and the walls repainted to their original color so that my dad would return. He hasn’t left. He is everywhere. There is no need to hunt for my father because he is not only in the house, he is always with me.
1977: I wake up to the sound of William Shatner’s dog barking. My parents and I live at Park Your Bark, a kennel my mom manages in Southern California. We live in a house attached to the property. (I think Tim Conway’s dog was there too.)
1978: My parents separate. I see my dad regularly.
1979: I return from a family ski trip to find that my dad has bought and assembled my new Barbie Dream House.
April 1980: Monster enters the picture. Monster is my mom’s new boyfriend.
May 1980: Monster continues beating mom, and I run away for the third time. They find me sleeping in my friend’s barn.
June 1980: My mom puts me on a plane to John Wayne airport. She says she will be coming to get me in two weeks. We are going to start a new life. That is what she said. That day Crazy Aunt is supposed to pick me up. She forgets. She is active in her addiction. Some nice airport worker buys me ice cream.
June 1985: I see my mom for the first time in five years.
July 1980: I am reunited with my father.
1980-1984: Dad and I move five times.
July 1981: My dad divorces his third wife and we move in with my grandmother. I can no longer watch cool shows on TV. Grandma makes me watch Little House on the Prairie.
December 1982: My dad goes to a 30-day treatment program after being threatened by his doctor, who tells him if he doesn’t seek help for his alcoholism and addiction to Valium, then Child Protective Services will be called.
March 2008: My father celebrates 26 years of sobriety.
April 1982: My mother becomes the first woman in the western U.S. to drive a double trailer semi. Seriously.
July 1988: I go truckin with my mother in California, Oregon, Utah, Idaho, and Nevada. I learn the phrase “Lot Lizard.”
June 1983: My dad and I think we see a UFO. The beginning of my interest in the paranormal.
December 23rd, 1984: My dad has me open all my Christmas presents because my mom promised to come get me for Christmas. She doesn’t show up.
April 1986: My dad buys his first house, one with pretty tulips and a huge backyard.
June 1987: We go fishing. He catches lots of fish and I catch a bat. Not a baseball bat, but a screeching injured bat.
July 4th, 2008: I spread his ashes near Lake Siskiyou where he loved to fish.
August 1990: My mother leaves Monster and moves back in with my dad.
May 1993: I graduate from college and two weeks later he informs me he has lung cancer.
May 1994: The night before my wedding, he gives me a talk about how I am stubborn and often too independent. He is concerned for my future husband.
May 1995. I graduate with a master’s degree. I see that look in his eye.
February 2000: He comes for the birth of his granddaughter. He puts electrical tape around the windows so the frigid air won’t seep in and hurt the baby. He cries when he sees her.
September 2007: It is Labor Day and he is sitting by the pool watching his granddaughters swim. His youngest granddaughter draws him pictures of aliens. He is so proud. We talk about Sasquatch for hours. It is the last time I see him.
It must have been quite a challenge raising a daughter on his own. He was a mellow fellow. He moved slowly and had slow responses when you asked him a question. I, on the other hand, was a hyperactive kid and loved to talk and talk and talk. I recall him putting me on a no sugar diet for six months. Despite that intervention, I still bounced off the walls. Sugar or no sugar. My endless energy faded as I got older. God, I would love some of that now.
Although my quirks must have driven him to the point of insanity, I don’t think that was his biggest hurdle in raising a daughter. It was that I was a girl. What did he know of rainbows, Hello Kitty, Barbies, sewing, or doing hair? I never wore my hair up because I couldn’t figure out how to do it. Neither could he. In the fourth grade I joined Girl Scouts. He signed me up because he wanted me to be around other girls and their mothers. It came time for me to have my numbers sewn on my sash. I recall him sitting at the kitchen table sewing on the numbers. He had a look of bewilderment as he tried to put the thread through the needle. It was hideous. String sticking out everywhere and the numbers were crooked. I didn’t care. He was my dad. I dropped out of Girl Scouts because it was too “girly” for me. I wasn’t interested in cooking or sewing. I wanted to be outdoors. I so get that from my dad.
The Hello Kitty and rainbow phase passed and I entered adolescence. Now talk about scary. I remember going school shopping with him to the local JC Penny’s. I had to get my first bra. I saw him privately whisper to the lady at the counter and poof! he vanished. Next thing I know this lady comes up to me with a handful of training bras. I asked, “where is my dad?” She assured me he was still in the store. I looked around and saw him standing in the linen section.
Puberty then came full force. He had a look of horror on his face when I told him that mother nature had finally visited me. He quickly got on the phone and called some of my friends’ mothers asking them to talk to me. He told me that he couldn’t buy my tampons and said he would arrange for some kind of female intervention. I remember finding his discomfort more amusing than embarrassing.
Along with puberty comes boys. Oh did he hate that! Boys would call me, hear his deep, intimidating voice, and hang up. I wonder how many dates I missed out on because my dad scared them away. He was very protective of me and warned me of the not so innocent motives of the opposite sex. I never brought home the guys I dated out of fear they would run away. I did tell him about my love interests and he always listened. There was one conversation we had where I shared that the guy I dated was trying to make it to second base. He said, “Kim, if you want this guy to wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll leave out the details.” I was much more cautious about what I told him after that, fearful for these boys’ lives.
I survived adolescence without a mother figure in my life. Although I didn’t sew, cook, or know how to put my hair up, I learned much more valuable skills: how to put on a new roof, chop wood, camp in the outdoors, fish, change the oil in my car, and have intellectual conversations.
It came time for me to get married. He offered to pay for my wedding dress and gave me no limit on cost. He went with me to look for my dress. It is one of the fondest memories I have of my dad. We went to every bridal store in Phoenix. Had lunch at Sizzler. He had the fried shrimp and a salad. The last store and the last dress of the day. I came out of the dressing room and he said, “That is the one. You look beautiful.”
1979: I return from a family ski trip to find that my dad has bought and assembled my new Barbie Dream House.
uys his first house, one with pretty tulips and a huge backyard.
often too independent. He is concerned for my future husband.
hyperactive kid and loved to talk and talk and talk. I recall him putting me on a no sugar diet for six months. Despite that intervention, I still bounced off the walls. Sugar or no sugar. My endless energy faded as I got older. God, I would love some of that now.
hey would run away. I did tell him about my love interests and he always listened. There was one conversation we had where I shared that the guy I dated was trying to make it to second base. He said, “Kim, if you want this guy to wake up tomorrow morning, you’ll leave out the details.” I was much more cautious about what I told him after that, fearful for these boys’ lives.
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