Retro Write #2: Reflecting On the Day My Dad Died
These words have been percolating in my head and heart for so long.
They bounce off of the walls of my soul, echoing and reverberating a longing vibration rife with disappointment.
I’m still running from my own feelings seven years after losing my dad.
I guess it’s fitting that I decided to revamp my blog on this date. To commit myself to truly being a writer and exploring these painful feelings I’ve kept buried.
Writers explore feelings.
As a ghostwriter, I explored the feelings of my clients. Man, that was such a comfortable, safe place to hide.
But like they say, progress is moving outside of the comfort zone, right? (BTW, who the hell are “they”? And why are they hiding in the shadows saying random shit?)
Anywhoo, as someone who is officially calling herself a writer and saying, “This is what I do for a living now,” that means no more hiding behind business suits in an ‘entrepreneurial’ cocoon. Or behind someone else’s emotions on paper. Here goes.
My dad was only 62 when he died from a cardiac arrest. My mom was the only one with him. I still feel guilty about that. I wish I would have been there to help her so she wouldn’t have had to go through all of that trauma alone. That shit still haunts her (and me) to this day. I just feel like… maybe if I was there, it would have softened the blow for her. I mean, I was literally at my own home 7 minutes away, my pregnant ass sleeping soundly while my mom was doing CPR on my dad.
Praises to the Most High, her life-saving efforts worked… sort of. Dad was alive, but he was in a brain-dead coma for over a week before we finally took him off of life support. The doctor said my dad’s brain was totally destroyed and he would never recover or wake up… or even be able to breathe on his own. He’d have to be on life support forever if we did what we wanted… and not what he wanted.
Dad used to always tell my mom to never let him stay on life support.
“That’s NOT living!” he’d always insist desperately, even yelling at us sometimes, as if he harbored a secret fear that if (or when) that ever did happen – and he no longer had control over the matter, we’d immediately doom him to his worst nightmare. “That’s not life! If I’m ever in that state, you just let me go. Let me go Home.” (Home = back to the Most High Creator)
It’s always easier said than done, though. And the sucky part? The actual decision was on my mom since she was his spouse, and lemme tell ya: she was tortured by it. Meanwhile, my dad – suspended somewhere between life and transition – haunted her dreams every night. She couldn’t sleep a wink the entire time he was on life support. Especially the day they performed dialysis (which he always hated) on his naked, incapacitated body. I was embarrassed for my dad and even told the nurses it wasn’t necessary – to just leave him be and that there was no need to put him through that. Geez, he probably wasn’t even going to be alive in 48 hours. But they said they had to do it, and we just stood by helplessly as they stuck more tubes into my dad.
The next day, my mom literally looked like she’d seen demons all night.
My brother and I knew it was for the best, but we all still struggled over the reality of the situation. Sometimes we talked about it – sometimes we argued about it. You can’t discuss an event that devastatingly momentous as if you’re just unplugging a lamp or something. Once that machine that breathed for him was shut off, he would be gone.
I held his hand as he “left”, and it was like I could feel his soul pass through me. Like he wanted to say hi to the grandson in my belly and meet him before crossing over.
I won’t go into all of the dramatic details of how the decision to take him off of life support affected the family dynamics, but nothing with my family has been the same since.
At this point, my circle has gotten pretty small. Mom, Gemari, and Avia (my two little wildlings) – they are absolutely my world and priority now. I made it my goal a long time ago to be – and stay – strong for them and protect them from whatever the Most High gave me the strength and will to.
But I’m no superwoman. Even I have my weak moments. Which is why I usually go off the grid during the week of Father’s Day.
You see, that year Father’s Day fell the day before we took my dad off of life support. Yep, he technically “died” the day after Father’s Day in 2014. (I don’t believe in death, just transition, but whatever…)
So, now every time that fucking holiday comes around, instead of feeling some kind of way (wistful… slightly envious… annoyed… “super-duper-missing-daddy”) by scrolling through social media and seeing everyone post pics with their dads, I just… turn it all off. Social media, phone, computer, work… everything.
Except, this year I didn’t.
June 16th, 2021, instead of sticking my head under a pillow and waiting for the day – nay, week – to be over, I allowed myself to come alive again. I let a young writer’s awesome work (“When Fredo Broke the Guillotine”, by Desiree Winns) ignite something in me that, for the first time since putting my dad in the ground in 2014, reminded me of a promise I made to him:
I’m gonna be a great writer one day, dad. You watch and see. I’m gonna succeed and write everything my fingers can type up, even screenplays. Even if I have to do like you said and learn the rules so I can break ’em properly.
So, what was it in Desiree’s story that stirred something in me? In her story, the protagonist has a really deep, intense conversation with God as he faces what appears to be his imminent death.
And while I do talk to the Most High quite a bit, her story made me realize that I needed to listen more. And when I finally did take the time to shut up and just hear our Divine Father, I gained the understanding of what I had been doing – or rather, not doing – since my dad’s death. Through my own inaction and broken promises, by refusing to honor a calling that still scares me to this day, I was dying a slow, painful spiritual death. Instead of toiling effortlessly toward the goal I promised my Earth Dad years ago, I let my fear get the best of me… and used grief as a justification for it.
And that’s not who I am. That’s not who my dad raised me to be. And it’s definitely not who the Most High Creator manifested me to be. And that’s why I’ve felt like a stranger’s been living in my own skin for the past 10 years.
You don’t know this, but my dad was always the one who took me to the bookstore and library. He was the one who showered books on his little girl faster than dudes showered dollar bills at a strip club. Some of my best memories were of my dad and I hanging out in Waldenbooks (before it became Barnes & Noble) and picking out “Babysitters Club” books. If I wanted a complete collection, he was gonna make it happen, dammit. LOL
So again, I guess it’s fitting that I chose the month of June to officially launch my blog… and commit myself to not only writing consistently but also being honest about my feelings when I do.
‘Cuz when it comes to feelings, I tend to hide those pesky things. Unless I’m really happy or really mad (the latter is pretty scarce, to be honest). But not anymore. If I want to truly be an inspiration to the readers I’m trying to reach, then I have to truly be a writer and claim that title. No more Muhammed Ali “floatin’ like a butterfly” around the title of “full-time writer”.
I still don’t want to be poor, though. Geez, I have two kids to feed. Is that honest enough for ya?
Anywhoo… now that I’ve bummed out most of my party guests, feel free to grab yourself a drink from the shelf and cheer yourself up. If you start telling embarrassing stories about yourself, I take no responsibility.
Until next time.
Praise Yah.
_______________________________
Date: 6/16/2021
TRUTH: Date penned – June 22, 2021
Song Currently Playing: “Goodbye”- The Spice Girls
