My father died on July 3rd, 2019 at 4:06am. It’s July 3rd, 2020 — 12:25am as I sit here trying to decide how I feel about that.
A whole year has gone by in a blink. I remember the last time I saw him awake, probably June 28th or so, gasping for breath under a bipap mask in as he impressed on me that he would not live through this bout of pneumonia with his eyes and a shake of his head. I tried to make bright small talk and told him he was strong, while panicking in my head.
The next time I saw him was July 2nd, he was fading in and out of consciousness and I said my final goodbyes to him standing next to Mum. We sat there for a while with him, and I stroked his arm while Mum held his hand and cried. I didn’t cry. I was numb inside.
A chaplain came to talk to us — mostly to Mum, because my being Jewish was out of his area of expertise. We went home, subdued and sad. We explained to my gran again that Dad wasn’t going to make it through this time, and we waited and had supper, lost in our own thoughts. The hospital called us at 4:08 in the morning to tell us he had gone, and mum woke me up to tell me. I didn’t cry, and still haven’t.
Not because I don’t love my dad — I do very much. But we had a complex and challenging relationship through the years, and I take medication that dampens my emotions to a great degree. I do feel things, but in a kind of foggy, distant sort of way. Sometimes I’m grateful for that, because the extreme highs and lows of schizoaffective disorder are exhausting. To feel too much, as though every sense is turned up to 11 and the waves are crashing all around you is far more terrifying than the wooly sensations I can examine at my leisure that I have now.
On the day I was born, I pooped in his hand. My parents bottle fed me, so they could share the schedule, mum on days and dad on nights. I remember at about age 2 wanting to parachute off the roof of our trailer, so Dad made a parachute out of a towel and some laces, put me on the roof of the porch, and I jumped down absolutely fearless into his arms and laughed. I was a little annoyed my parachute had not slowed my fall, but it was fun nonetheless.
My father went back to Viet Nam, and I carried around a 5x7 picture of him in uniform everywhere I went. I remember once at the post office I stopped to say the pledge of allegiance at every flag sticker on every door down the hallway, holding that picture. And I showed that picture to every adult that stopped to talk to me. He sent me bedtime stories on tape. I think Mum still has some of them. He was different when he got back.
He told me classical myths and legends as bedtime stories, and read me The Hobbit. My favorite was Icarus and Daedalus.
When I was 7, I went to Girl Scout camp for the first time. He took me to the PX, and bought me all the gear I would need — all with the official Girl Scout logo on them, because I thought I *needed* to have official equipment. It was an innocent thing, but it cut into the budget of a young Captain with a family, who spent a lot of time in the field in a foreign country. But he made sure I didn’t know about that. I used that camping equipment proudly, all through my scouting years.
When I was 8 I got the mumps over Christmas break. Dad brought me tulips, which to this day are my favorite flower.
When we lived in Germany we explored as a family. We went on volksmarches, saw castles and museums and he cut me a walking stick of my very own, carved with designs. Later when we got back to the states he bought a sailboat and we went out as a family on the Gulf of Mexico — him as the captain, and me as the “first mate”. He showed me how to tie knots and taught me the basics of sailing.
We moved from state to state, post to post. As he went up the ranks he was gone more. And when he came home he was more distant and harried. In Kansas he drove my soccer team to the fields we played on an hour or so away, in our GMC van with the captains chairs and the louvered blinds. We were dead last for 2 years in a row in the division, but he always took us for donuts or ice cream after the games. He bought me sheet music to learn and taught me the basics of music theory. He played trombone, guitar and bassoon.
When we lived in Belgium, he and I built a patio off the side of our house with various pieces of slate. As we worked on it, we made up stories about how each piece represented a country and how they interacted with each other and laughed about that for days. We called it The Statement. He was sad in Belgium, out of his element at NATO and under pressures he didn’t know how to cope with. He liked to pee on Belgium late at night in the yard. Given what he dealt with on a day to day basis, I don’t blame him one bit.
When I did Model NATO and represented France, he made arrangements for me to come have lunch with him and got me an appointment with the French attache to discuss my diplomatic strategy. He also introduced me to Monsieur Ben, the restaurant owner that hatched a tourist scam with me that provided extra pocket money on the weekends. We had a dad daughter date there when Mum was chaperoning my brother’s class trip to the Ardennes.
When I fell madly in love with David Bowie, he helped me cut my hair into that ridiculous blond pompadour circa 1983’s Let’s Dance and let me wear my men’s trousers, button down shirts and braces with his fisherman’s cap.
He let me join his Boy Scout troop, and stood up for me when the Mormons who sponsored the troop flipped out about it. I didn’t get to stay a Boy Scout, but it was hella more fun that Girl Scouting was with the Mormons. The guys in the troop didn’t seem to mind, most of them were D&D friends of mine anyways.
When we went on vacation to England, Wales and Ireland, we went to stonehenge. By this time they had it roped off, so you couldn’t actually get close to the stones due to people chipping off bits and vandalizing things, but when no one was looking, he held up the rope and told me to run. I dashed off as fast as I could, slapping the stones one by one as I went past, only heading back when security made a beeline for us. I got away with it. He also stood guard when we went to Shakespeare’s grave and I read a poem I had written on a scroll, and I made a little bow when I was finished. He winked at me with a grin.
On the day of my senior prom, he had my put on my dress early, and walk with him in my heels, tottering along down the sidewalk in front of our house on base, so everyone could see how beautiful I was. He did not threaten my date.
After I had moved out and gotten my first real job, I met my parents at Lake of the Ozarks one summer and they rented a pontoon boat and we had a barbeque. My dad and I danced together in the sunshine. I don’t remember the song, but I remember the dancing and the laughter.
He “sold” me a 2000 Buick Regal when I lived in Arizona, and flew me out to meet them at my grandparents house in Jackson, Mississippi. He signed over the car title and wrote me a check for $5000 so I could go to computer school and get home in one piece. When I realized I didn’t have a lighter for my smokes, he got me one of those barbeque lighters so I wouldn’t lose it anymore as a joke. I kept it for years.
When I got truly sick in Oregon, and unable to care for myself anymore, he told me to come home. He paid for the Buick to be fixed so I could drive home with Nigel, and gave me enough money to make the trip home to Louisiana. He paid for my $1000 worth of dental work, bought me new clothes to replace the rags I was wearing, and gave me an allowance while I waited for my disability claim to wind through the system. He also got my driver’s license reinstated by paying the $800 fine, as well as some other bills I had been neglecting. He took me to my appointments, and made sure I got the care I needed from the local parish mental clinic. I planned to stay for a week or two, I stayed for a year and a half.
When I needed to replace my social security card, he went with me to the local office, and sat there in the lobby with me until my number was called. When I was denied a replacement card for being trans — he got mad and told that gatekeeping woman that she needed to give his son the card, and escalated it to a supervisor. We didn’t win that day, but when I went back a few weeks later, he went with me again, just in case I needed some back up. I got my card.
After he had the stroke, he went to a nursing home because he needed specialized care. When I came back to Louisiana, I didn’t visit him as much as I should have. I felt awkward and it pained me to see him like that, a shadow of the man I knew. I went periodically, and spent time with him, but I regret not going with mum more to see him.
My room here at home is his office. We took down most of the military memorabilia off the walls, and cleared space on the bookshelves, but I kept his clock, our license plate from Belgium and a picture of him up on the wall by my bed. Dad’s ashes are in a beautiful urn in the living room, and I periodically stop and touch it as I go by — because Dad is here at home with us where he belongs.
I have some of his watches, and the last pair of shoes he ever wore. They have his hospital room number and our last name written on the back. I don’t wear them very often because I don’t want to ruin them. But they make me think of him every time I put them on, and I hope they last for a long time.
I miss my dad, and I seem to have a wet beard. Today I will give tzadukah in his name, and tonight I will light a yahrtzeit candle and participate in the Mourners Kaddish prayer at zoom shul. See you all after havdalah on Saturday.
Mourners Kaddish
May his great name be blessed, forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored, elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he – above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations which are uttered in the world; and say Amen.
Tzadukah — translated as “charity” actually means righteousness
Havdalah — a ceremony at the end of Shabbos to mark the return to the regular week