Today, 24 years ago, I had just come home with my two older kids and their dad. I was changing my son's diaper on the living room floor, when I heard a knock on my door. It was my brother Tommy and sister Jeri.
They came in, and I looked up from my son and said, "Is it dad?" Neither of them said anything and both were standing over me as I was cleaning my son. I looked up at both of them, studying their faces and said, "Dad died, didn't he?"
My brother nodded. I tightened up the straps on my son's diaper, and I said, "I knew it! I knew it was going to happen."
The tears didn't immediately come down my face, but both my siblings had tears running down theirs. I picked my son up and started to cry, "I knew it. I dreamt it. Twice!"
I sat sobbing, and my toddler daughter said, "No crying, Mommy!"
I looked up at my sister and brother and asked, "How?" already anticipating the answer was a heart attack. I dreamt he had a heart attack two nights before and a fire the night before that. My sister said, "He had a massive heart attack at work." I didn't need any more details and I don't think either of them wanted to talk anymore because it was too hard to talk when your chin is quivering and you want to cry.
They quietly left, just as quietly as they came over. I had no devices to carry me through my grief. My brother drank. My sister smoked. I stood in the shower and sobbed till the water got cold. My crying was loud and I could feel it from the bottom of my stomach and throughout my entire chest, until it hit my throat in wails. I hyperventilated, snot draining out of nose, eyes blood red and swelling, and at that moment I forgot the world around me, my kids, my mom, my partner, my dog, and the fact I was tired and thinking about bed when I got home.
I stayed up all night, crying in bed, crying in the living room, crying in the bathroom, looking at my sleeping babies and crying some more. I had to be at my first day at school in the next 12 hours after my initial shock. I didn't know how I was going to do it.
My father and I had become estranged when I got pregnant with my daughter at 18 years old. He had high hopes for me as a photographer or some sort of artist. I was always exceptional in the arts. I got pregnant and put everything on hold. My dad was so mad at me and swore he would never talk to me again.
Regardless of how he felt, I knew every address he moved to, from St. Peters, Missouri, to Gering, Nebraska, and eventually to Taylor, Michigan, and I made sure he got to know my kids through photos and scribbles with crayons. I used to draw around their hand or send handprints to him so he could see how much they grew and that they may be out of sight, but they were going to be in his mind, whether he liked it or not.
I was mad at him for being mad at me for nothing other than making my own adult decisions as an adult. He could be mad at me. I couldn't care less, but you will see my kids and what you're missing out on.
In 2000, he killed his brother after an ongoing dispute. My dad was found not guilty because of self defense. Either way, it was a homicide. My uncle's death tore my paternal family apart. Some people were extremely angry with my dad. Some people were supportive of my dad and angry with my uncle's wife for instigation. Whatever happ n d happened. We can't take it back.
I went to Michigan for my uncle's funeral. Much of my family from out of Michigan state did. My kids were free to fly and so I brought them with me. My dad made his individual rounds in the family to make peace with everyone he had falling outs with, to apologize for killing his brother, their brother, our uncle, their dad. Though he made his peace and apology with me in Michigan, I still kept a wall up when I got back home to California.
I refused to call my dad first. I went on with my life. My dad didn't feel any more reason to stay in Michigan, as his siblings and my uncles kids lived there and it was too close for comfort, and moved to Littleton, Colorado. He lived in a motel, not how I imagined my dad living the remainder of his life.
My dad got a job with Frontier phone company and started earning money again. He was retired from GTE but needed to earn money to pay off his debts as well as support himself. In September 2000, my dad and his long-distance wife went to Maui, Hawaii and had a little vacation to wind down from the recent traumas and to get reacquainted. She was his main emotional support system.
In November my dad came to California and spent time with my sister Jeri and brother Tommy and myself and my little family for Thanksgiving. My birthday was the next day. For once, I looked forward to seeing my dad and was with my siblings when he called.
He said, ""happy birthday. I can't see you today because I'm spending the last day with Penny (his wife). I love you and hope you have a happy birthday." I was devastated. I was hoping to have a birthday with him. It had been since childhood that he celebrated my birthday in person.
December came around and he mailed my kids father Mike a Broncos jersey, just because it had the name Anderson on it, which is Mike's last name. Not even a gift for me. I was semi-jealous. It was my dad's way of apologizing without saying sorry, and that was acceptable.
January rolled around and my dad was using the Internet for the first time. He began sending junk emails of greeting cards and I'd just delete, delete, delete, never thinking that I'd ever wish to look at his emails again.
February 20, 2001, I lost my dad. It is now 2025 and though it has been easier, grief is still there. My dad was 35 and 11 months older than me. He was 59 and two months old when he died. I'm 47 and 3 months, just 12 years younger than what he was last time he sent an email. He never got to be old.
I miss my dad and I'm so sorry I didnt make a better effort to get to know him as an adult, because I refused to ever let him hurt my feelings again. My feelings hurt anyway, because I didn't initiate any contact. I hurt.my own feelings.
One thing he told me when I was 17 and just graduated high school, "Make me proud." I take care of my elderly mom. I'm making him proud.
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