Part II can be found here. Names have been changed. This is the last chapter, all written in January, 1995 with the exception of the end. The "ending" was written a few years after his death, after I'd graduated college and had gotten my first career. I also added a small adjustment today. Because I didn't have a relationship with God at the time, I did not speak of Him, although my writings about my Father since then have been filled with the grace of Faith God has given me.
**
I kept glancing at the coffin containing my father. He looked so peaceful, but so bloated. He had gained a lot of weight, but the jaundice didn't show. I was glad the funeral home had done such a good job. We had chosen to keep the coffin open for that very reason and also to avoid questions a closed casked would prompt.
**
One of the mourners told me about Michelle. She was a little 5-year-old girl who lived next door to Dad. He learned one day that her own father had abandoned her and her mother, so every Monday, he went over to give Michelle some sort of gift, be it gum, a Disney movie, or simply a piece of candy. This went on for three years. Dad died on a Tuesday. On Monday, Michelle had noticed his absence. The week prior, Jacob had brought the last gift.
Michelle, in return for Dad's kindness, gave "Mr. Josh" a single pink rose to place beside the casket.
At first, when I gleaned this information, I felt guilty. I thought that he had felt abandoned by me, his own daughter, and had "adopted" Michelle to take my place. I later came to my senses, realizing my selfishness. I understood that the situation was simply an example of the kind of person my father had been - right up until the day he died. Dad always considered others, was sentimental, and always tried in little ways to make things better for people around him.
**
After the service, the family again had privacy. I stood in front of the coffin, staring once again at Dad, knowing that this was it, the final goodbye. I would never see him again. On Monday as I sat in class, Dad would either be stored or buried, never to see the sky again. I cried as if I would never stop, and honestly, I felt that I never could. Jacob stood beside me, his arm around my shoulders, trying to comfort me. But all the self-control in the world would not put a stop to this. Finally he ordered me to look at him.
Tearing my eyes away from Dad, I looked at Jacob as he told me, "Say goodbye, turn around, walk away, and don't look back."
I knew he was right and this was it. I looked at Dad once more, reached out to take hold of his arm and give it a squeeze, let go, turned around, and walked away. I never looked back.
Jacob and I hugged each other and cried together. I hitched in a breath and whispered what had been plaguing my very soul ever since I heard the news.
"He never knew how much I loved and appreciated him..."
"Yes, he did.." Jacob's words were proper, but his voice betrayed a different truth.
"No, he didn't. I never told him..."
Then Jacob said the one thing that succeeded in giving me some perspective. "Life is always unfinished."
**
I often think of my Dad, and usually not a day goes by that I don't remember him. I try not to feel the guilt that sneaks up on me when I least expect it. I try not to remember all the weekends I could have spent time with him - but didn't. The truth was that I couldn't face the problem because it made me feel helpless and I didn't know how to deal with that. So I ran away.
Dad wouldn't help himself, so we couldn't help him, either. So we forgot him.
Dad was the only person who had ever supported my dreams wholeheartedly, unquestioningly, and unconditionally. He supported my career choices from the beginning. He believed Jacob and I could do anything, and actually told us so. He gave me incentive in the first place and related over and over how much he bragged to his friends about our accomplishments.
And I never appreciated it.
Dad was not there when I graduated from Law Enforcement skills in the summer of 1995, nor was he there when I graduated with my 1st college degree or my subsequent Master's (2010 update). He wasn't there to congratulate me and help me celebrate when I got my first professional job. If I ever get married, he won't be there to escort me to the altar. If I ever have children, he will not be there to hold them. If I enter religious life, he won't be there to witness my vows and meet his new "family". I can never call him on the phone or go visit him at home. He will never again laugh with me at the stupid little tricks life plays on us. Dad is gone and he has left a huge, never-ending void in my life that can never be repaired.
If there is one thing I hope to pass on that I learned from my father, it is this: How to see and appreciate the good in life, no matter how little sun we see or how dark it becomes. He always put the happiness of others before his own, and I can only hope that one day I'll have the fortitude to do the same.
In memory of my Father
For all the things left unsaid.
Rest in Peace. I love you, Dad.
*
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Dandelions for Dad - Part II
Part I can be found here. Keep in mind that the names have been changed and the passages in blue italics are "flashbacks" to childhood.
I still remember that fateful fall day. It was dark, wet, and stormy, a day when even the clouds hung low in their gloomy desperation. Mom went out to the maple tree in the front yard and smashed a bottle to pieces, in a symbolic act of rejection. Shortly afterwards, Daddy walked out carrying a suitcase. From then on we only saw Daddy on weekends. Some time later, after much ado, sound, and fury, not to mention court battled and children as pawns, Mommy and Daddy were "Divorced."
"I'll tellya, Josh was a great guy. He could really put 'em away. When I remember the times we used to drink together..."
Sometimes I would appraise the speaker, note the beer gut, and think, "Guess what, buddy, you're next on the list..."
When I was 10, Mom, Jacob, and I moved to Minnesota. Dad came to visit one Easter and when he left, I had to go to school, where I sat in my seat and fought to hold back the tears. I was completely unable to control myself. I told the teacher I didn't feel well and she let me go to the bathroom. Some time later, the kindly, grandmotherly school secretary came to check on me. "Are you going to upchuck?" she queried.
I laughed at the term, having never heard it before. I told her no, but that I still felt sick. She told me that when I felt a little better I could come see her in the office. So I did, and I "helped" her out for awhile with some probably meaningless things. After some time she asked if I felt better and invited me to go back to class. But Mrs. Brugger let me know that I could come visit her any time I wanted.
She never asked me what was going on, but in looking back, I know she knew that I needed some time, and that sometimes "sick" was a word that described a lot of things without going into detail.
About a year later, Daddy moved to a nearby suburb and then to Minneapolis. We were able to see him a lot more, usually on weekends, since that was the court order. he denied drinking whenever confronted but just the same, we knew what was going on. The proof was all there, but we didn't know what to do to stop it.
"Which one of you is the one who loves horses? Oh, I have a picture from when you were about [that] big, when your dad brought you over to go horseback riding!"
I had always loved horses, and when I was 12, Dad paid for me to have riding lessons for about a year, even though eh couldn't afford it. On my 16th birthday, we went to Canterbury Downs to watch the horse races. We joked around about the "Filly for a Fan" drawing that I entered. he said we would name the filly "Julie's Dream" after me.
Before the race he asked me if I wanted to drive home and offered me the keys. Not being naive, I took them. Whenever he went to place our bets, he didn't return until the beginning of the next race. By the end of the last race, Daddy was not exactly sober. I drove home.
"My, I remember when you were just a little girl!!" You must be about done with college now, Eh? You haven't' been up here for how long now? It's too bad that such sad circumstances brought you to Michigan..."
Little by little I began to get involved in more and more activities in school and church, making it "impossible" for me to visit Dad. When I was pressured by Mom and Jacob to go visit him, I would make excuses, talking about how busy I was. The truth was this: I just didn't want to deal with it. Daddy was still drinking, wouldn't admit it, and I didn't want to spend the time dealing with the problem if he wouldn't.
My Grandpa died when I was 14. Dad moved to Michigan to take care of Grandma and make sure she was getting along. It was hard to see him at all after that since we had limited time off from school and only one family car, which of course was needed by my mother to get to work.
I thought I didn't care. I pretty much wrote Daddy off as dead, killed by alcohol which had left only a shell of his former self. Whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his speech was slurred and he often drifted off in mid-sentence, seeming to forget what he was talking about. Every once in awhile Jacob and I would talk, and we began to predict how much time Dad had left. And we felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing we could do.
Dad came down for my High School graduation. I didn't get much time to spend with him - I had parties, a boyfriend, and endless other "important duties" imposing on my "valuable time," not to mention a severely bipolar mother who terrified me and insisted I meet a certain curfew, far different than the legal standards. Dad left town the day after graduation. He had to get back to Michigan. I was happy he had come, but apparently not happy enough.
Jacob went to Michigan about once or twice a year to visit Dad. I had different circumstances than he and was never able to go. We did keep in contact by phone, but little by little, our conversations grew shorter and further apart. Dad was always checking and re-checking my address, as if he feared I would just up and move on him, disappearing off the face of the earth. That's probably exactly what he did think. And that's almost exactly what I did - not physically, but emotionally, I abandoned my Daddy.
I spoke to Dad before I'd left for my semester in Mexico, gave him my address there and promised to write. I did write to him, but there were so many things I wanted to tell him in person so I couldn't put everything down. I collected postcards for him, knowing he would enjoy those. About a month before I returned to the U.S., Jacob told me that Dad wasn't doing well, and that I should be prepared to come back and travel to Michigan immediately. I was angry with him, believing him to be overreacting.
I returned on schedule and that night I called Dad to let him know. We didn't say much; Dad sounded tired and his speech was slurred. I didn't know if he was drunk, or if it was just the effects of long-term alcohol use on his brain. I suspected the latter. Jacob went to Michigan without me; after having a semester with no work, I had a lot of shifts to pick up in order to be able to pay for second semester. So Jacob called about every other day to give us the latest reports. he said that Dad was incontinent, and he had to make "vodka runs" to the store for him, and Grandmas was almost blind and seemed to have no idea what was going on with her son.
On Christmas Eve I called to talk to Dad. Jacob said that Dad's back hurt and he was unable to get out of bed. The next day, Christmas, was the same story. Jacob said that he was turning yellow and he could hardly move. He refused to go to a doctor, so Jacob went on acting as private nurse. He returned home on New Year's Day, 1995.
On January 3rd, he woke me up to inform me that Dad had actually risen to go downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis, St. Francis", the name of the local hospital. he collapsed, was taken to the hospital and never regained consciousness. He had a Do Not Resuscitate order and had indicated he also did not want kidney dialysis.
The hospital kept him comfortable and the doctor kept in close contact with Jacob, who had been granted the burden of Power of Attorney.
I went to work with tears in my eyes, resigned to what my intuition told me - that Dad would die that day and I'd never get a chance to say goodbye. I worked to keep my mind off the situation, but all evening I watched the clock, waiting for the message to come. All through my shift I dealt with other people's crises, keeping watch over suicidal kids, talking them down from the hallucinations, letting them vent about their abuse issues. But I couldn't stay at work forever, and at some point I knew I'd have to face my own ghosts. When I got home at midnight, Mom came out of her room.
"Your Aunt Brenda called at 10:30. Honey, your Dad died at 9:00. I'm very sorry."
I called Jacob at his college. We talked for awhile and then I spent the night crying and praying, going out of my mind, not knowing what to do or how to feel, regretting every word I had never said, regretting what few words I did sometimes say. The next day, just to keep busy, I drove down to school to move some thing into my dorm room. I informed the people at work that I would be unable to work the remainder of the week. I packed and prepared for the information regarding the funeral. We left for Michigan on the 5th, for the wake and funeral on the 6th.
*
Go to Part III, Final Chapter
------------------------------------------------------------
I still remember that fateful fall day. It was dark, wet, and stormy, a day when even the clouds hung low in their gloomy desperation. Mom went out to the maple tree in the front yard and smashed a bottle to pieces, in a symbolic act of rejection. Shortly afterwards, Daddy walked out carrying a suitcase. From then on we only saw Daddy on weekends. Some time later, after much ado, sound, and fury, not to mention court battled and children as pawns, Mommy and Daddy were "Divorced."
**
Sometimes I would appraise the speaker, note the beer gut, and think, "Guess what, buddy, you're next on the list..."
**
I laughed at the term, having never heard it before. I told her no, but that I still felt sick. She told me that when I felt a little better I could come see her in the office. So I did, and I "helped" her out for awhile with some probably meaningless things. After some time she asked if I felt better and invited me to go back to class. But Mrs. Brugger let me know that I could come visit her any time I wanted.
She never asked me what was going on, but in looking back, I know she knew that I needed some time, and that sometimes "sick" was a word that described a lot of things without going into detail.
About a year later, Daddy moved to a nearby suburb and then to Minneapolis. We were able to see him a lot more, usually on weekends, since that was the court order. he denied drinking whenever confronted but just the same, we knew what was going on. The proof was all there, but we didn't know what to do to stop it.
**
"Which one of you is the one who loves horses? Oh, I have a picture from when you were about [that] big, when your dad brought you over to go horseback riding!"
I had always loved horses, and when I was 12, Dad paid for me to have riding lessons for about a year, even though eh couldn't afford it. On my 16th birthday, we went to Canterbury Downs to watch the horse races. We joked around about the "Filly for a Fan" drawing that I entered. he said we would name the filly "Julie's Dream" after me.
Before the race he asked me if I wanted to drive home and offered me the keys. Not being naive, I took them. Whenever he went to place our bets, he didn't return until the beginning of the next race. By the end of the last race, Daddy was not exactly sober. I drove home.
**
"My, I remember when you were just a little girl!!" You must be about done with college now, Eh? You haven't' been up here for how long now? It's too bad that such sad circumstances brought you to Michigan..."
**
Little by little I began to get involved in more and more activities in school and church, making it "impossible" for me to visit Dad. When I was pressured by Mom and Jacob to go visit him, I would make excuses, talking about how busy I was. The truth was this: I just didn't want to deal with it. Daddy was still drinking, wouldn't admit it, and I didn't want to spend the time dealing with the problem if he wouldn't.
My Grandpa died when I was 14. Dad moved to Michigan to take care of Grandma and make sure she was getting along. It was hard to see him at all after that since we had limited time off from school and only one family car, which of course was needed by my mother to get to work.
I thought I didn't care. I pretty much wrote Daddy off as dead, killed by alcohol which had left only a shell of his former self. Whenever I spoke to him on the phone, his speech was slurred and he often drifted off in mid-sentence, seeming to forget what he was talking about. Every once in awhile Jacob and I would talk, and we began to predict how much time Dad had left. And we felt helpless because there was absolutely nothing we could do.
**
Dad came down for my High School graduation. I didn't get much time to spend with him - I had parties, a boyfriend, and endless other "important duties" imposing on my "valuable time," not to mention a severely bipolar mother who terrified me and insisted I meet a certain curfew, far different than the legal standards. Dad left town the day after graduation. He had to get back to Michigan. I was happy he had come, but apparently not happy enough.
**
Jacob went to Michigan about once or twice a year to visit Dad. I had different circumstances than he and was never able to go. We did keep in contact by phone, but little by little, our conversations grew shorter and further apart. Dad was always checking and re-checking my address, as if he feared I would just up and move on him, disappearing off the face of the earth. That's probably exactly what he did think. And that's almost exactly what I did - not physically, but emotionally, I abandoned my Daddy.
I spoke to Dad before I'd left for my semester in Mexico, gave him my address there and promised to write. I did write to him, but there were so many things I wanted to tell him in person so I couldn't put everything down. I collected postcards for him, knowing he would enjoy those. About a month before I returned to the U.S., Jacob told me that Dad wasn't doing well, and that I should be prepared to come back and travel to Michigan immediately. I was angry with him, believing him to be overreacting.
I returned on schedule and that night I called Dad to let him know. We didn't say much; Dad sounded tired and his speech was slurred. I didn't know if he was drunk, or if it was just the effects of long-term alcohol use on his brain. I suspected the latter. Jacob went to Michigan without me; after having a semester with no work, I had a lot of shifts to pick up in order to be able to pay for second semester. So Jacob called about every other day to give us the latest reports. he said that Dad was incontinent, and he had to make "vodka runs" to the store for him, and Grandmas was almost blind and seemed to have no idea what was going on with her son.
On Christmas Eve I called to talk to Dad. Jacob said that Dad's back hurt and he was unable to get out of bed. The next day, Christmas, was the same story. Jacob said that he was turning yellow and he could hardly move. He refused to go to a doctor, so Jacob went on acting as private nurse. He returned home on New Year's Day, 1995.
On January 3rd, he woke me up to inform me that Dad had actually risen to go downstairs, repeating, "St. Francis, St. Francis", the name of the local hospital. he collapsed, was taken to the hospital and never regained consciousness. He had a Do Not Resuscitate order and had indicated he also did not want kidney dialysis.
The hospital kept him comfortable and the doctor kept in close contact with Jacob, who had been granted the burden of Power of Attorney.
I went to work with tears in my eyes, resigned to what my intuition told me - that Dad would die that day and I'd never get a chance to say goodbye. I worked to keep my mind off the situation, but all evening I watched the clock, waiting for the message to come. All through my shift I dealt with other people's crises, keeping watch over suicidal kids, talking them down from the hallucinations, letting them vent about their abuse issues. But I couldn't stay at work forever, and at some point I knew I'd have to face my own ghosts. When I got home at midnight, Mom came out of her room.
"Your Aunt Brenda called at 10:30. Honey, your Dad died at 9:00. I'm very sorry."
I called Jacob at his college. We talked for awhile and then I spent the night crying and praying, going out of my mind, not knowing what to do or how to feel, regretting every word I had never said, regretting what few words I did sometimes say. The next day, just to keep busy, I drove down to school to move some thing into my dorm room. I informed the people at work that I would be unable to work the remainder of the week. I packed and prepared for the information regarding the funeral. We left for Michigan on the 5th, for the wake and funeral on the 6th.
*
Go to Part III, Final Chapter
Dandelions for Dad - Part I
I've decided to post, in a series, what I wrote back in 1995 while trying to come to terms with my father's death. I couldn't speak to anyone, but I could write..and so I did. The format of this was what I had just experienced as a 20-year-old, alternating with flashbacks to childhood. All of the names have been changed.
Walking into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Knowing that I was going to have to accept what I saw, not knowing how I would react...my legs were jelly and every force within me told me to turn and run away; to reject what had happened, to return home and go on with my life. But there was one stronger force which morbidly and determinedly pushed/pulled me towards the front of the room. The funeral director had set this up specially so that the family could "view the remains" before they closed the casket for the wake. Gritting my teeth, holding my breath, and fighting to control my emotions, I walked up to the coffin and stared down at my father.
I remembered being very young, and how much I loved my Daddy. I spent so much time with him that everyone called me "Daddy's Girl." I used to follow him around, singing him songs, keeping him company, asking questions, and joking around. I used to bring him my favorite flower, dandelions, and he would hold them under my chin to see if I liked butter. I often brought him bouquets of violets and dandelions, in all their vivid color. And he would always smile and thank me and give me a hug. Then he would put them in a vase as if they were the most precious gift he'd ever been given. He was a very good Daddy.
But sometimes, I remember, Daddy used to act kinda funny. I thought it had something to do with the strange-smelling stuff in the brown bottle. Or the stuff in the tan plastic glass with the brown rim. I wondered why he would never let me near it, or why Mommy glared at him so much when he had it. Then he and my mom started yelling at night after my brother, Jacob, and I were in bed. I was upset by it, but only because they were loud and mommys and daddys weren't supposed to fight. I would go to sleep, covers pulled over my head to protect me from the ghosts and monsters because Mommy and Daddy were too busy yelling at each other to chase the boogie man away.
People were coming in to pay their last respects. I was composed, but unsure of how to act. Jacob and I stood together, needing each other for support. My uncle directed the guests to sign the book. We accepted condolences and thanked people for coming. With a strange sort of detachment, I thought for awhile that I was the one who had died and the sentence imposed for my sins was to sit in eternal damnation at my father's funeral. The wake dragged on and on, always the same. Different faces, everyone saying the same inane things over and over again and again...
"He was so young! I never even knew he was sick! I just realized the other day that I hadn't seen Josh in awhile and I was going to go visit him...what happened?!"
We went on, telling the truth, so help us God. We went on as always, just as we had been for years, avoiding what should have been faced so long ago. Not that it mattered anymore.
Before we left to go to Daddy's friend's house (a shrine circus clown!), Mommy admonished Jacob and I not to ride with Daddy if he'd been drinking. I was confused. Wasn't it good to drink? Wasn't she always telling us to drink more water? Why shouldn't Daddy???
But I did understand, no matter how much my child's soul tried to hide it from me. and the clown's children, who were older than us, told us not to go with him. They thought they should call our mother. But being children, they did nothing, fearing even to do what was right. There was a line there between adult and childhood, and it should never be crossed - so we thought then. As the time drew near for our departure, even though I heard whispers of daddy's friend's children, talking about our dad and looking at us worriedly and sorrowfully, we still got into his car. What choice did we have? He was Daddy! And Daddy always knew what was right. It was easy to relinquish control when you don't possess it in the first place.
Daddy was driving funny on the way home, swerving all over the road, back and forth. Jacob and I were laughing because Daddy was fooling around, just being funny. then we looked behind us at the flashing lights. Wow!! A police car! Just like in "CHiPs"! Daddy was getting "pulled over!" Neato-Cool!!!
It never really occurred to us that Daddy was doing something wrong.
Jacob and I got a ride home in the squad car. Mommy wouldn't tell me what was going on but years later I learned that she went to bail Daddy out of jail that night.
"I'm very sorry this happened. If there's anything I can do..." Voices droned on and on.
I wanted to scream at them, "Look! There's nothing you or anyone else can do! He's dead! Look at him! you should have done something while he was alive so that you wouldn't have to smother me with meaningless words!!!! Someone should have stopped this from happening! GO AWAY!"
But I only nodded and thanked them for coming.
Go to Part II
** ** **
Walking into that room was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Knowing that I was going to have to accept what I saw, not knowing how I would react...my legs were jelly and every force within me told me to turn and run away; to reject what had happened, to return home and go on with my life. But there was one stronger force which morbidly and determinedly pushed/pulled me towards the front of the room. The funeral director had set this up specially so that the family could "view the remains" before they closed the casket for the wake. Gritting my teeth, holding my breath, and fighting to control my emotions, I walked up to the coffin and stared down at my father.
** ** **
I remembered being very young, and how much I loved my Daddy. I spent so much time with him that everyone called me "Daddy's Girl." I used to follow him around, singing him songs, keeping him company, asking questions, and joking around. I used to bring him my favorite flower, dandelions, and he would hold them under my chin to see if I liked butter. I often brought him bouquets of violets and dandelions, in all their vivid color. And he would always smile and thank me and give me a hug. Then he would put them in a vase as if they were the most precious gift he'd ever been given. He was a very good Daddy.
But sometimes, I remember, Daddy used to act kinda funny. I thought it had something to do with the strange-smelling stuff in the brown bottle. Or the stuff in the tan plastic glass with the brown rim. I wondered why he would never let me near it, or why Mommy glared at him so much when he had it. Then he and my mom started yelling at night after my brother, Jacob, and I were in bed. I was upset by it, but only because they were loud and mommys and daddys weren't supposed to fight. I would go to sleep, covers pulled over my head to protect me from the ghosts and monsters because Mommy and Daddy were too busy yelling at each other to chase the boogie man away.
** ** **
People were coming in to pay their last respects. I was composed, but unsure of how to act. Jacob and I stood together, needing each other for support. My uncle directed the guests to sign the book. We accepted condolences and thanked people for coming. With a strange sort of detachment, I thought for awhile that I was the one who had died and the sentence imposed for my sins was to sit in eternal damnation at my father's funeral. The wake dragged on and on, always the same. Different faces, everyone saying the same inane things over and over again and again...
"He was so young! I never even knew he was sick! I just realized the other day that I hadn't seen Josh in awhile and I was going to go visit him...what happened?!"
We went on, telling the truth, so help us God. We went on as always, just as we had been for years, avoiding what should have been faced so long ago. Not that it mattered anymore.
** ** **
Before we left to go to Daddy's friend's house (a shrine circus clown!), Mommy admonished Jacob and I not to ride with Daddy if he'd been drinking. I was confused. Wasn't it good to drink? Wasn't she always telling us to drink more water? Why shouldn't Daddy???
But I did understand, no matter how much my child's soul tried to hide it from me. and the clown's children, who were older than us, told us not to go with him. They thought they should call our mother. But being children, they did nothing, fearing even to do what was right. There was a line there between adult and childhood, and it should never be crossed - so we thought then. As the time drew near for our departure, even though I heard whispers of daddy's friend's children, talking about our dad and looking at us worriedly and sorrowfully, we still got into his car. What choice did we have? He was Daddy! And Daddy always knew what was right. It was easy to relinquish control when you don't possess it in the first place.
Daddy was driving funny on the way home, swerving all over the road, back and forth. Jacob and I were laughing because Daddy was fooling around, just being funny. then we looked behind us at the flashing lights. Wow!! A police car! Just like in "CHiPs"! Daddy was getting "pulled over!" Neato-Cool!!!
It never really occurred to us that Daddy was doing something wrong.
Jacob and I got a ride home in the squad car. Mommy wouldn't tell me what was going on but years later I learned that she went to bail Daddy out of jail that night.
***
"I'm very sorry this happened. If there's anything I can do..." Voices droned on and on.
I wanted to scream at them, "Look! There's nothing you or anyone else can do! He's dead! Look at him! you should have done something while he was alive so that you wouldn't have to smother me with meaningless words!!!! Someone should have stopped this from happening! GO AWAY!"
But I only nodded and thanked them for coming.
Go to Part II
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Abandonment
Every so often I pick up St. John of the Cross and read "Dark Night of the Soul", just a few paragraphs at a time. I have not yet tackled the entire book. I have Father Dubay's "The Fire Within", but haven't finished it, and here and there I come across St. Therese of Avila and references to her work. Throughout many of the writings of the saints are descriptions of "abandonment", and it gives me pause; I have to wonder what it means. The thought terrifies me. It's not that I recieve so many consolations from God, but the very thought of spiritual abandonment simply makes me quake. In reading the Saints, I realize that whether I recognize them or not, the fact that I experience consolations really means I'm just an infant in the spiritual life; and I have to admit that the thought of holiness to the degree experienced by these Saints doesn't sound like something I want to pursue.
It's not that I don't want to be holy; rather, I'm terrified of the sacrifice required in order to be like Jesus, in order to walk in the shadow of His cross, and of the rigorous training course established by God to purify our souls to such a degree.
More often than not, I read about consolations, affirmations, the comforting presence of God, knowing that He is there, recognizing His will in so many things. I read about ecstacies experienced by the Saints, their experience of God, and certainly it would be awesome indeed to attain this level of sanctity, but it does not come without a price.
And even then, after they come...there is ABANDONMENT. The sensation of abandonment; God withdraws all consolations. Such utter spiritual dryness and seeming desolation that the one affected must carry on simply as an act of the will; it is a desert, a purification. And yet, in spite of this seeming desolation, God is even closer to that particular soul; it is a special sort of suffering, beyond true description.
And it terrifies me.
This morning as I walked my dogs in the utter darkness of the early morning, shivering in the cold, dreading my workday, I considered the concept of abandonment and thanked God that I am not anywhere near that point in my spiritual life.
And then it came to me; while I have not experienced what the Saints describe, I have experienced something that gave me at least a little perspective.
My Dad passed in early January 1995, and it took me MONTHS to really grieve. I didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act, so instead, I was just angry. And sad. And desolate. All those things, and more, and yet I lived my day to day life, losing my faith along with the rest of the world.
Even though my parents had been divorced for many many years, for some reason I dreaded Christmas with a strange sense of horror. We wouldn't talk to Dad. We couldn't buy Dad gifts. Nothing was coming from Dad. It was Christmas...without Dad.
I couldn't bear to be around my family, for his absence was even more absent, and because I hadn't seen him at all since my high school graduation, about 3 1/2 years prior, my guilt just ate away at me.
I had graduated early and was working for the college that winter, so I made sure I was on the Christmas schedule. Prior to Christmas I had gone home, celebrated "Christmas", stayed overnight and then headed back to the school. It wasn't that I really wanted to be alone...I just didn't want to be around family. It was odd.
But I DID want to be alone because when I was with them, I felt even more alone; Dad's loss was that much more painful, and I couldn't handle it.
It was so painful it was like a burn; it left my nerves deadened; I was numb. It was a grief so deep I could not express it to anyone, not even to myself. So I fled civilization for the haven of the school from which I had graduated and I enclosed myself into the darkness of my grief, trying to understand.
And I've never felt so incredibly alone in my entire life.
On that Christmas Eve, I couldn't even stand the very room I was in. No one was at the college; no one was anywhere. The dorms were abandoned, the bluffs were silent.
And it was into the bluffs I fled, under the Christmas Eve stars, into the shadows of the trees and the confinement of the snowy creek banks.
I just walked, alone in that darkness, tramping through the snow, wishing I could cry, wanting to scream, wanting only relief from this terrible, terrible pain. I wondered if I was depressed? I considered that seriously, but no...I knew what depression was, I had all the symptoms indexed in my mind for professionally I had worked with truly depressed people. No; I was far too functional to be depressed. Dysthymia? Nope...not that either.
Intellectually, I knew that this was grief, I knew I was not handling it well, and whenever I confronted myself with that reality I shoved it aside in favor of wallowing within the pain, wanting to understand it, needing to purge myself of it, but not wanting to go to anyone else for help to do it. I was far too independent for my own good.
But I didn't care; I just wanted to be alone. Alone with God, seeking my faith again, seeking the God I had grown up knowing. And yet I didn't know him.
So that night as I walked, I spoke to God. I berated him for this pain, I berated him for taking my Dad away from me, and I cried out to him about my own guilt.
I remember sitting at the side of the creek, suddenly realizing that I felt completely alone; completely abandoned.
Abandonment.
In the middle of the cold winter wildnerness, surrounded by the frozen forest, unable to even hear the waters gurgling under the ice and snow.
I was numb; I was abandoned. I cried out to God, but He did not answer me, nothing was revealed. Nothing was changed, nothing purged, nothing healed.
I realized that I had gone out to seek God because the futility of my own actions had so far gotten me nowhwere. And yet I was still rejecting the Church which had always been my solace before. Even as I sought God, I was running away from him.
I remember that terrible, terrible numbness; not just from physical cold, but this strange spiritual numbness; Abandonment.
I remember a couple of tears fell...and froze on my cheeks. Frozen just as I was inside.
Slowly, I stepped out on the ice, knowing where the little waterfall was. I knew I was being stupid for there was no one to hear my screams. I was not suicidal; far from it! Yet I almost hoped I would fall through a weak spot in the ice, to be partially submerged; water ran under that ice all winter. Even the harsh Minnesota winters would not completely freeze that rushing stream.
I didn't want to die; I only wanted to shock myself into feeling something again. Anything other than this terrible interior pain. Anything other than this hopeless feeling of complete and utter desolation;
Abandonment.
But the ice didn't crack; even it was silent, refusing to give me the relief I so desperately craved.
I walked back to my room, to the warmth, still numb, still alone within my pain, still bereft of God.
A small miracle...I tried to go to Mass the next day, and oddly, couldn't find one! I must have gone at the wrong time, and there was no one to call to answer my questions as to WHEN!
So even when I finally went to find God, the door was closed and locked, sealing my abandonment.
I was in a ghost town, literally knocking on the door; and no one answered.
I can't remember how I got through that terrible phase in my life. Probably just fell into the routine of work, but I do know that the terrible sensation did finally ease. I do know that over time, the grief ebbed, leaving mostly only the anger...and finally, acceptance.
Grief is still painful and sometimes catches me by surprise with its razor-sharp edges, yet never since that Christmas Eve have I ever felt that terrible abandonment.
In looking back, now I see a blessing; a spiritual purging I did not understand. I chose the separation, and now now I look back and realize that it could be a shadow of what is to come. God was right there with me the entire time, likely crying the tears I could not, likely closer to me than He ever has been before or since.
For it is in our abandonment, the Saints have learned in their wisdom, that God is closer than ever, and we can't find Him or see Him because he is holding us so closely we are blinded by his love and compassion. Even in snowy, frozen bluffs of a cold Minnesota Christmas, God is there, and sometimes, when it seems like He isn't answering, it is because he is speaking so softly that it takes years to understand his words.
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