Four years ago on Easter, I found my father's lifeless body in a chair in his apartment. The night before he had been lucid, but he didn't want to be bothered. He sent the medics away. He left the phone off the hook. I believe that he knew he was dying and he wanted to do so in peace.
I also believe that my voice may have been the last that he heard, because it was in answering my call that the phone was never returned to the receiver...
I've never really written the details about this before, but my sweet daughter posted on Facebook a picture of her, when she was in about 2nd or 3rd grade, with my father. He loved her and she him. And that brought to mind a flood of memories that I have to share.
Before I begin, I would like to disclose that this is in no way meant to disrespect my father.
Since I've been an adult, I've understood his behavior. I was at peace and we knew how to interact successfully (or at least I knew how to draw and maintain strong boundaries). As usual, this post is about love.
My father was an interesting human being. He was either a charming, smart and funny man or one of the most terrifying, cruel and angry men that I've ever heard tell of (I'm going to let my natural speech flow - I miss my cultural way of talking and it'll be easier for me this way). The problem always was that we never knew which one would show up and I was always fearful as a child; evenings were often filled with yelling, weekends with intentional cruelty and meanness and I could never understand why in the world families needed daddies if they were just going to be like that. I made a decision very young to never have to put up with any of that. I'd go to college and make my own money, have my own children. Nobody needed that kind of person making them feel horrible the majority of the time. I understand now how strange that is; most people feel some kind of allegiance to their parents, regardless of their behavior, but I never did. Too much pain. Too much hurt. I haven't changed my mind about that, either.
My parents divorced when I was 15. To this day, with all the happiness and joyful events that have transpired since, that was the happiest day of my life. I could live in peace. Our house would be peaceful. No more fear.
Things were better then, but I acted out. Most kids with newly found freedom do and I was no exception.
I grew up. Left for college. Continually wrestled with the condemnations and angry things that just popped up in my head. I carried an incredible amount of hostility, too. I carried those hurtful wounds and never-healing scars around with me for years - much like a badge of honor, or unfortunately, even a suit of armor.
And then I decided that I'd do my best. My father reached out to me after my daughter was born. He wanted to know about her. He wanted to know how I planned to take care of her. He wanted to know her name. He wanted me to be in a good place to be a good mom. His awesome side was out. And I knew I could handle it. I was 21 years old and committed to building some kind of good relationship with my father. I knew he loved me. I knew he got angry for no discernible reason and said cruel things, but I was ready.
While my father and I continually struggled, mostly prevailing and doing well, the only part of him that my daughter ever knew was the awesome side. I am so thankful for that. The relationship that he had with my daughter was his redemption. His one pure chance to be the man I thought he wanted to be; the loving, giving, funny and smart man. He was all that and more to my daughter. It gave me hope.
Hope that he would see how his cruelty affected loved ones. Hope that he would take some of that love and energy and be Daddy-awesome all the time. I knew he could do it - I'd seen it. I wanted him to be happy and to share his goodness with others, too.
But I don't think that's what he wanted. I think he was depressed. Tired. Hurting and angry, himself. He didn't have to die. He let himself die. He didn't take care of himself. I think he felt such pain and remorse for the way he had treated loved ones for so long that he just gave up. Gave in. And died on Easter. 2009.
Easter is the day of the risen Christ. For God so LOVED the world, he sent His only Son...to save the world. Easter is the day that Christians know as the day when love prevails.
Light overpowers darkness. Death where is thy sting?
And my father is dead.
Of course I cried, but what has always bothered me more than anything is WHY? Had his life truly just taken him down? Were there too many fights? Too many lost battles? Why did he give up like that? Why? Did he not want a new life? Did he not want to change? Did he not want to ... live?
And that breaks my heart.
Maybe it's because of him that I know this: some people do not want to change. When people hurt us and we live with the idea and the hope that they'll change, I have bad news. Some of them can't or don't want to change. Some of them would rather die than to swallow their pride and move on.
I'm thankful that my father was a wonderful grandfather for my daughter. I'm glad that he taught me to stand up for myself, to throw knives, to shoot a gun and drink liquor. I'm glad that my rebellious nature is, in great part, his creation.
I'm sad to say that I'm also thankful for the lessons he taught me, intentionally or not, that some people won't change. And it's best for us to do what is best for us. Set boundaries. Get a divorce. Leave a job. Live your life.
We are an Easter people. Every day is a new day. The cross is empty. We are saved. Jesus died for our sins. And my father let himself die for his.
And that breaks my heart.
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