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. He had also threatened to kidnap me and had actually made a physical attempt to do so. 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.
How will I ever love myself the way my dad loved me?
Snow can wait
I forgot my mittens
Wipe my nose
Get my new boots on
I get a little warm in my heart
When I think of winter
I put my hand in my father’s glove
I run off
Where the drifts get deeper
Sleeping beauty trips me with a frown
I hear a voice
“You must learn to stand up for yourself
Cause I can’t always be around”
He says
When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast.
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I’ll always want you near
You say that things change my dear
Boys get discovered as winter melts
Flowers competing for the sun
Years go by and I’m here still waiting
Withering where some snowman was.
Mirror mirror where’s the crystal palace
But I only can see the myself
Skating around the truth who I am
But I know dad the ice is getting thin
He says
When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast.
Hair is grey
And the fires are burning
So many dreams
On the shelf
You say I wanted you to be proud of me
I always wanted that myself
He says
When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast.
All the white horses have gone ahead
I tell you that I’ll always want you near
You say that things change
My dear
He would have loved singing “Silent Night” by candlelight at the Christmas Eve service. He would have stood next to me. My mother told me that he liked hearing me sing.
He would have heard me read Twas The Night Before Christmas to his lovely granddaughters.
He would have watched me make a pie. His fears . . . well, he would have kept to himself. He would have told me it was really good even if it tasted like pumpkin flavored cardboard.
He would have sat on the big green recliner and listened to music with my husband. The two of them would have had long conversations about jazz.
My daughters would have brushed his hair, asked him questions, and said, “Grandpa, watch this!”
I would have heard my mom say, “BUUUD!” and then watched him roll his eyes. They would have teased each other like they always did.
I would have sat down with him and we would have talked for hours. We’d cover every topic from religion to politics to Bigfoot to ghosts to his childhood to my childhood.
We would have reminisced of Christmases past.
Christmas morning I would have seen him with a cup of coffee in his hand and heard him say, “Merry Christmas.”
We would have watched the Weather Channel and commented on the barometric pressure wondering what storm was looming over the pacific.
I would have seen the smile on his face as my daughters opened their gifts. He would be gleaming because of the joy written all over their little angelic faces. He would have watched them for hours playing with Barbies. It would have brought him back to a time when I was a young girl.
He would have tried to put together anything that needed assembling. He was a regular McGyver. He would have had so much patience with each little plastic gadget.
He would have reminded me of all the times he caught me red handed peaking under the tree.
He would have opened his box of chocolate covered cherries.
He would have thanked me for the socks and shirt I got him for Christmas.
He would have had the ham instead of the turkey.
He would have told me how sweet and smart his granddaughters are and how he is so proud of them.
I would have seen him physically tired and uncomfortable. He would not have complained.
I would have hugged him and told him all the things I should have said.
I would have had to say goodbye. I would tell him I love him, one more time.
It seemed as though the dark storm clouds were finally being carried away by the wind. They no longer were hovering over me. The sun had come out again. I thought to myself, it has been 8 months and maybe this is the moment where I can be part of the human race. This week, I could cry without wailing. It didn’t take as much effort to laugh or smile. Along with storm clouds, my guilt over things I wish I had done or said seemed to have moved on.
I should have known, like many times before, grief would strike again. What brought it on? Today I received a photo album from Crazy Aunt. It was a tribute album to my dad, beautifully crafted and capturing his true essence as a man and a father. I studied each picture. I have seen them a million times over the years, but now they have a different meaning.
Each picture used to be my dad, who was alive. Now they are pictures of my dad, who is dead.
I then turned to the end of the album which contains pictures of family members at the funeral, copies of the eulogies, and the funeral service program. It hit me, once again: he is no longer here.
Now I cannot bring myself to smile. The crying will turn to weeping. The storms clouds are taking their form, once again over my head. The sun has deceived me.
In the book A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis, once again, articulates every gut wrenching feeling I experienced in a matter of minutes:
Tonight all the hells of young grief have opened again; the mad words, the bitter resentment, the fluttering in the stomach, the nightmare unreality, the wallowed-in tears. For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?
But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?
How often-will it be for always?-how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment?” The same leg is cut off time after time. The first plunge of the knife into the flesh is felt again and again.
I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to go to a grief support group. My first hesitation was, “I am a therapist, I know what to do.” Sounds silly now that I think about it, but at the time any excuse would do. I also am rather quiet at first and the thought of meeting a bunch of new people made my stomach tangle in knots. I was concerned that these strangers would think I was crazy. Especially if I spoke about my Grief Diet. What would they think if I talked about not being able to eat at times, having persistent insomnia, feeling so angry and alone, losing my keys, being a fugue state most of the day, questioning whether I belong to the human race? Would they understand what it feels like to have regrets and guilt over what I wish I would have done or said differently? What if I talked about not being sure who I was or struggling with “am I depressed or is it grief”? What would they think then? Finally, what if I spoke about wanting to have contact with my dad. Or at least a dream.
So the first night I met these strangers in my grief group, I had to hold back the tears. I wanted to run as fast as I could out of the first meeting. I knew it was going to be hard. Each week I would have to talk about the enormous hole that has been left in my heart. I would be reminded of the day my father died, my childhood, the hurtful things people have said since he has died, the other recent losses in my life, and I really didn’t know if I could do it. After the second night, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t want to run, walk maybe but not run. After a few weeks each of the people in my group were no longer strangers. They were fellow mourners and I realized I wasn’t alone. Each time I shared things that should have had me committed, instead I would receive compassionate glances as well as several nodding of their heads. They knew exactly what I was experiencing. They too have been on the Grief Diet.
My fellow mourners have lost their mothers, fathers, a brother, a sister, and a daughter. I came to know each of them and their loved ones who have passed. I met a woman who was raised by her father. Our stories are so similar that it is not coincidence that we were placed in the same group.
As our group comes to a close next week, I am so grateful that I did not give into my rationalizations. The process has not be a piece a cake. Many a Tuesday night I left sobbing. One night I had my first and only panic attack on the side of a road. But through our discussions, poetry writing exercise, and bringing in pictures of our loved ones, I have seen some glimmer of light in the midst of all of this pain. Being with these people each week gives me hope.
So I dedicate my post tonight to my Grief Group. If you are reading, words cannot express the gratitude I feel towards each of you. I don’t feel so alone. Thanks for listening and understanding. Thanks for allowing me to share my dad with you and for each of you to trust me with the memories of your loved ones. My burden is not so heavy anymore.
The Kitchen:
I spent much of Thanksgiving here. It was full of light from the sun. The shades were open, welcoming anyone who might want to stop by. It wasn’t just the light that made the kitchen this happy place. It was the aroma of fresh herbs. The deep orange of the pumpkin pie and dough rising on the counter. My mother-in-law’s hands were busy at work. We cut potatoes and mixed the stuffing. From the kitchen, I could hear my daughters’ gargling little giggles; my father-in-law engaging them in the Macy’s Day parade, saying, “Here comes the pirates,” relieved when someone would actually sit and watch it with him; and the sounds of the door opening and shutting as my poor husband made numerous trips to the store. There were living people in this room and windows to the outside world.
"Master Bedroom" by Andrew Wyeth
The Bedroom:
At times, I went to my bedroom. A room where there was silence and darkness with the curtains drawn. No distractions. There is no welcome mat in front of my bedroom door. It is a place of rest, not work. It is not a room of the living but that of the dead. During the Thanksgiving bustle, I often found myself drawn here to cry. It was the first Thanksgiving I would not hear his voice or talk to him. In the quiet of the bedroom, I hoped I could hear him. We could talk about Thanksgivings past and memories of Wah-Lee’s Chinese restaurant in Yreka where we ate one year because of our inadequacies in the kitchen.
In my grief, I’m trying to find the balance between these two rooms. One that includes the living, the present, others, food, life, laughing, parades. And one that includes quiet and solitude and the past and tears and the dead. To stay in the kitchen too long is to deny my grief and thus my memories, and to stay in the bedroom too long is to deny my life.
How is that balance possible? Can I ever merge these two rooms? Can I bring tears for my father into the kitchen? Can I bring my giggling daughters into my place of grief? Or should the wall between these two spaces remain?
They wheeled him out on a gurney. His eyes taped shut and his skin so pale. He looked dead. My mom and I gasped at the sight of him. He was being moved from surgery to ICU. He was battling lung cancer. Standing at 6 foot 3 and only weighing 145 pounds, he was too frail to undergo chemotherapy. His doctor told us that he had a 50/50 chance of surviving.
This was 1993. He told me on our way home from the hospital that the first few days in ICU, he wanted to give up. He used the words “pull the plug.” He fought with his pain remembering me and my mom. He said that he wanted to be around to see me with a career, walk me down the aisle, and become a grandfather. I was relieved that he was going to keep fighting. I needed him.
His battle didn’t end once he was out of ICU. The last five years his health had declined. His lung cancer never returned, but he now battled emphysema, congenital heart failure, and osteoporosis. He was put on oxygen and became more and more limited with what he could do. I hated seeing him struggle to breathe.
So less than a year before his passing, I flew out to see him. I had something important to say. I told him how thankful I was for him fighting all of this time. But, I also told him that if he needed to go, I would be ok. I promised. I committed to taking care of my mother and be a good mother to his granddaughters. With a coffee cup in his hand, he looked up at me with his eyes swelled with tears. He said, “Kim, you have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that.” He also told me he didn’t have much time left. His body was weary. He was weary.
I am so glad I could give him that gift. Although, now there are times I wish I could go back in time and take it back. But, I know it is what I needed to do. I only hope I can keep my promise.
reminded of the day my father died, my childhood, the hurtful things people have said since he has died, the other recent losses in my life, and I really didn’t know if I could do it. After the second night, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t want to run, walk maybe but not run. After a few weeks each of the people in my group were no longer strangers. They were fellow mourners and I realized I wasn’t alone. Each time I shared things that should have had me committed, instead I would receive compassionate glances as well as several nodding of their heads. They knew exactly what I was experiencing. They too have been on the Grief Diet.
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