Lupin, Toro Park photo'd by GG
Grieving in my Dreams
Dad has been gone for three weeks, yet I have not had time to grieve for him, at least not during my waking hours.
I have not taken time for that deep soul cleansing cry that every child, no matter their age, wails, with the loss of a parent.
During the weeks since his passing, I have been the “fireman of the family” attempting to put out the flames of arguments among siblings and step family, succeeding at negotiating a cease fire on some days and failing miserably on others. The mortician and I commiserate. I have determined that he is not compensated sufficiently for the headaches he endures from families like ours.
I have endured the twisted manipulations of my brother but make no excuses for the evil he perpetrates. He turned my father’s eulogy into a farce, all to cover up for his own neglect and
abuse of Dad.
I have been answering the lengthy calls from my sister, not wanting to abandon her at this time, but painfully raw from her betrayals and lies. At the very least of her offenses, she prohibited me from any access to Dad during his last final year, simply because of her sick jealousy of me. I make excuses for her and enable her to continue her charade.
I think she and I continue to talk because we are seeking answers to the same questions...
Why didn’t our parents love us?
How did we offend them?
Why did they reject us?
We attempt to assemble the pieces of an immense broken puzzle, a puzzle whose lost pieces will never be found amongst the rubble of our parents’ combined total of seven marriages and countless step siblings.
My waking hours are filled with attending to the details of Dad’s issues. There is no time to mourn.
I grieve for Dad in my dreams.
I wake up hearing a distant sobbing, a muffled cry from an aching soul. That soul is mine.
Where is Dad?
Where is my Daddy?
Where is my protector?
I am half a century old and am still seeking the security of the father who never protected me.
He stood by while Mother abused us. He left when she threw him out, but did not return to rescue us.
He dumped me, as an innocent girl, into my vicious and dangerous first marriage. He never once called, visited or sent a card during these ten years of my fighting cancer, yet he told, actually boasted, to his friends, of my “brave battle”, without ever acknowledging me or extending a word of support.
Most people mourn the loss of a parent they loved and who loved them, who nurtured them, and who raised them with high hopes.
I mourn the loss of a parent I waited for.
I waited for him to protect me.
I waited for him to come through for me.
For most of my life, I waited for his approval.
When will I mourn the loss of my dad?
Will I continue to grieve for him in my dreams? Will I be released from this pain to be able to sleep again? Or will this loss be added to the collection of scars, emotional scars that run deeper than the visible scars from all twelve surgeries?
I must accept Daddy for what he was; an accomplished pilot, brilliant craftsman, popular business man, charming and truly the most charismatic man I have ever seen in public, yet a neglectful and absent father.
We can’t “have it all” but all this kid ever wanted was a supportive dad.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies:“Daddy Has Dementia” and
"Healing for the Heartbroken" Copyright 2009 © by Red Tailed Hawk Publishing All rights reserved
Dad has been gone for three weeks, yet I have not had time to grieve for him, at least not during my waking hours.
I have not taken time for that deep soul cleansing cry that every child, no matter their age, wails, with the loss of a parent.
During the weeks since his passing, I have been the “fireman of the family” attempting to put out the flames of arguments among siblings and step family, succeeding at negotiating a cease fire on some days and failing miserably on others. The mortician and I commiserate. I have determined that he is not compensated sufficiently for the headaches he endures from families like ours.
I have endured the twisted manipulations of my brother but make no excuses for the evil he perpetrates. He turned my father’s eulogy into a farce, all to cover up for his own neglect and
abuse of Dad.
I have been answering the lengthy calls from my sister, not wanting to abandon her at this time, but painfully raw from her betrayals and lies. At the very least of her offenses, she prohibited me from any access to Dad during his last final year, simply because of her sick jealousy of me. I make excuses for her and enable her to continue her charade.
I think she and I continue to talk because we are seeking answers to the same questions...
Why didn’t our parents love us?
How did we offend them?
Why did they reject us?
We attempt to assemble the pieces of an immense broken puzzle, a puzzle whose lost pieces will never be found amongst the rubble of our parents’ combined total of seven marriages and countless step siblings.
My waking hours are filled with attending to the details of Dad’s issues. There is no time to mourn.
I grieve for Dad in my dreams.
I wake up hearing a distant sobbing, a muffled cry from an aching soul. That soul is mine.
Where is Dad?
Where is my Daddy?
Where is my protector?
I am half a century old and am still seeking the security of the father who never protected me.
He stood by while Mother abused us. He left when she threw him out, but did not return to rescue us.
He dumped me, as an innocent girl, into my vicious and dangerous first marriage. He never once called, visited or sent a card during these ten years of my fighting cancer, yet he told, actually boasted, to his friends, of my “brave battle”, without ever acknowledging me or extending a word of support.
Most people mourn the loss of a parent they loved and who loved them, who nurtured them, and who raised them with high hopes.
I mourn the loss of a parent I waited for.
I waited for him to protect me.
I waited for him to come through for me.
For most of my life, I waited for his approval.
When will I mourn the loss of my dad?
Will I continue to grieve for him in my dreams? Will I be released from this pain to be able to sleep again? Or will this loss be added to the collection of scars, emotional scars that run deeper than the visible scars from all twelve surgeries?
I must accept Daddy for what he was; an accomplished pilot, brilliant craftsman, popular business man, charming and truly the most charismatic man I have ever seen in public, yet a neglectful and absent father.
We can’t “have it all” but all this kid ever wanted was a supportive dad.
An excerpt from Where the Red Tailed Hawk Flies:“Daddy Has Dementia” and
"Healing for the Heartbroken" Copyright 2009 © by Red Tailed Hawk Publishing All rights reserved