The Grief Diet: On the loss of my father

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. He never said one bad thing about my mother in front of me. He could have, but he didn’t want to destroy any chance that we could have a relationship. 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.

This past year, I found myself hooked on the TV show Medium. For those of you who know me, you are not surprised by this revelation. I was intrigued by the main character Allison Dubois. The character is based on the real Allison Dubois, who is a well known psychic/medium. On the show, Allison is frequented by the deceased and she often has messages to give to the living.

I found each episode entertaining, but I had never given much thought to psychics or mediums. I was curious of course but never considered having a reading or trying to communicate with any of my relatives or friends who have passed.

Until April 2nd.

After my father’s death, I became consumed with wanting to communicate with him. I googled, searched the yellow pages, asked people who were more open minded about this kind of stuff. Now what is the difference between psychics, mediums, clairvoyants? It gets kind of complicated, I learned. But I knew I wanted a medium who would be like Allison Dubois: empathetic, down to earth, and passionate. Oh…and could talk to the dead. I didn’t want someone who could see and communicate with fairies or pets. That is a little out there, even for me.

Suffice it to say, I became pretty darned obsessed with this idea. Then a friend of mine asked me the question, “What is it that you want to hear or say?” I thought about it for a long time. I want to make sure he is okay, want some confirmation from him that I am doing okay, and that there was nothing left to say.

I started to realize that my father, a man of few words, would probably not say much of anything to the medium. What he would say is, “figure it out for yourself.” That is how he raised me. To be independent, trust my intuition, and to find my way.  He would always just listen.

I haven’t completely given up on this idea, but I’m farily sure that if I could talk to Allison and she could talk to my dad, he would probably just tell me what I already know. He loved me. What else is there?

Lord Dunraven massaged my feet at the Stanley Hotel.

In January, my buddies and I decided to spend a weekend at the infamous haunted hotel. (It’s the one in Estes Park that inspired Stephen King to write The Shining.) We didn’t really expect to experience any kind of phenomena. We didn’t bring fancy ghost hunting equipment or discuss the strategies we would use to communicate with the spirits known to haunt the hotel. We just wanted to have a girls’ weekend. To our surprise and fear, however, we encountered many unexplained occurrences. Maybe in a future post, I’ll go into greater detail, but suffice it to say that there were unexplained foot massages in a room known to be haunted by Lord Dunraven who is known to have a fetish for female guests’ feet, doors mysteriously closing and opening, beds shaking, lights flickering—the works!

It wasn’t just me who felt, heard, and saw strange things. We arrived at the hotel as paranormal agnostics, but we are all now believers.

I wondered if what occurred during my time there was real or imagined. My friends and I still discuss our weekend and ask the question, “Did that really happen?” The experience was surreal and evoked many other questions about the afterlife.

The day after my trip, I called my dad and explained what happened. We discussed it for hours. He researched the hotel and its invisible inhabitants. I gave him a copy of a one-page letter documenting my encounters at the Stanley Hotel. I wrote this letter to enter a contest held by the Ghost Hunters TV show. I didn’t win. It was my ticket to being famous. Oh well. Anyway, he taped all of the Ghost Hunters episodes and week after week we would discuss what EVP’s (electro voice phenomenon) were caught as well as footage on the infrared cameras.

We also talked about his own death. He told me he would ask God if he could communicate with me. He promised me, if allowed, he would not throw stuff around, turn lights off and on, or try to tickle my feet.

The day after his passing, I slept in his room with his flannel shirt on my pillow. I wanted so badly to be close to him. I recall thinking, “If Lord Dunraven can communicate with me, then why can’t my dad?” I was desperate to hear his voice, see him, touch his hand. I do believe on the third night, I felt his presence in the room. He was comforting me as I lay weeping on his bed.

His death was six months ago today, and I am preparing to return this weekend to his home, his room. I believe that my interest in the paranormal is no longer just my insatiable curiosity. It is now personal. There is nothing para-normal about my desire to communicate with him. In grief, it seems normal to go ghost hunting this weekend. I will bring the equipment this time and who knows maybe he will give me a sign of his presence.

(Here is the rest of the story.)