I woke up one morning when I was 8 and my Dad wasn’t home. He and my mom were divorced at the time. Oddly enough, he was the one with custody. My mom has always been slightly abnormal when it comes to the “being a mom” concept. That April morning in 1989 was so bizarre. Dad wasn’t home. Two of his work buddies were in our living room. My sister was still asleep. She was 5.
My Dad was a maintenance supervisor at the apartment complex where we lived. It wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for either of these guys to be sitting at the apartment with my Dad off fixing someone’s broken window or something. When I asked where he was on that particular morning I was told that he was “out on a call.” OK then…
Within minutes I was being told to pack a bag for my sister and I. We were going to spend a night or two with my aunt. Alright… off to pack up a bag of stuff for sister and I. My uncle shows up with his big box van and we hang out on our sleeping bags in the back.
What I remember then is that we spent some time at my aunts and people were really attentive. We thought we were there just to play with my cousin. Everyone was acting a bit odd but in my family that’s really nothing new.
Then my mom showed up.
Besides the fact that my mom has never liked this side of the family, why would she be coming to get us for a bit from my aunt’s house? It wasn’t her day. Strange.
The next 30 minutes changed my life. She took us to a pond area. Somewhere pretty. She had to talk to us. Something had happened. Something with Dad. He was dead. He wouldn’t be coming home. We wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. He was… gone… I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t stop crying. Dead? That’s what happened to the stupid hamster you bought me a year or two ago. I remember, Dad buried it in the long driveway. Would we bury Dad in the long driveway? But…. but…
Soon after telling us, mom brought us back to my aunt’s house. (I told you she didn’t really understand the whole “being a mom” concept) Sis walked up to my aunt: “My Dad’s dead!” – innocent, matter of fact, not sad. She was 5. What did she know? She had no idea what “dead” meant.
I, on the other hand, understood. In fact, I had wished for it. This was all my fault. I was the reason he was dead. All because I was a brat and wanted to take my radio outside and he got mad at me. He didn’t want it breaking. I wasn’t allowed to take it outside. And I told him I hated him. How could I have said that? Oh my god, this was all my fault. How could I tell him I wished he would just die. Why oh why did I say that? Why did I have to fight with him? Why couldn’t I have just behave. If only I behaved he would still be alive. This was all my fault. This was all my fault….
I cried and cried to my aunt about all of that. It had to be my fault because I said it. And then it happened. The same day.
I don’t remember sleeping. I don’t remember eating. I barely remember talking. I remember sitting in my uncles lap all curled up. I remember crying and crying. I remember people being nice. Asking if I was OK. Trying to get me to eat. Trying to get me to play. Trying to get my mom to allow us to go to his wake. Arguing with my mom because she didn’t want us at the funeral either. We were moved to my Nana’s house. Would we ever see our own beds again? What about all of our stuff? What about school?
Where was my mom?
It was decided among my Dad’s family that Sis and I should get the chance to see Dad before they buried him. We needed to have the chance to say goodbye. First, they needed to explain what happened. He had a brain aneurysm. What? A vein in his brain popped. He wasn’t in pain. He had been watching TV with his girlfriend. He passed out. She just thought he was tired. Then she realized that he wasn’t asleep and that something was wrong. She called 911. (How didn’t I hear the ambulance? How did I sleep through my Dad dying? ) There were complications during the ambulance ride. They had to pull over. When they got to the hospital he was put on life support. He had no brain activity. We were told he was a “hero,” though. He was an organ donor. Because of that his eyes might look weird. They had donated his eyes. The lids were sewn shut.
So there we were… 5 and 8… looking at our Dad… in a coffin… with his eyes sewn shut. And everyone… everyone was looking at us. Granted, it was just our family at that point, but I could feel their eyes on us. Watching. Waiting. For what?
We didn’t get to go to the funeral. A huge fight ensued over the fact that we saw him at all. My mother in all of her infinite wisdom didn’t think we should be at either the viewing or funeral. Because, really, who needs to say goodbye to their dad when they die anyway…
And through it all… the one thought I had… was … It’s my fault… It’s all my fault…
4/8/89 – I love you Dad.