In my father’s wallet is a faded sticker
That once read, “it’s a girl!”
and next to that faded sticker was a multi-sleeve wallet insert for several photos l
of me
My father would always be reminded of my identity, before he could show proof of his own.
I think he preferred it that way.
I will never, ever doubt the love this man felt for me and I believe my father never loved anyone as much as he loved me.
It was mostly a comforting love
often a complicated love
and at times—hard times—a consuming, inconvenient, and repelling love.
I didn’t know how to tell the truth about my father fourteen years ago, but now, right now, I’m ready to give the eulogy true to me today, and fair to us forever...
several hours before a heart attack would grip and release him to the ether, i spoke to my dad on the phone.
He called me from his hotel room to say good night and to tell me how proud he was of me and how much he loved me.
It took every ounce to return the sentiment because, well, there was so much pain, so much heartache and so much exhaustion.
I was tired of being his wife — there was NEVER any sexual abuse —
but i was tired of trying to fulfill a roll no child should ever be assigned to their lonely parent.
i was tired of being a twenty year old woman sleeping on a twin size bed
when my dad was the Western Regional Manager of a water bed and furniture manufacturing company
I was tired of having a bed named after me that wasn’t mine to sleep in
i was tired of convincing him i loved him
i was tired of being guilted and psychologically abused
for decades
i was tired of waiting for the father i knew, the father i loved, to come back to me
I was tired of being his.
The thing about chronic pain, is it robs you of your will to live.
it lies to you— it tells you there is no life here
no color
no joy
no hope
no love
and my father was in so much pain.
The medical community calls the condition “Dystonia”, but you tell me what it’s called when a 56 year-old man tries to stand up straight one day but is instead pulled into a hunch,
literally dragged to a bow
compressed into submission
as though his abdominal muscles are saying
you will comply, brother
you will obey, son
you will heed to me, Larry.
They call it “Dystonia”.
I call it death.
I call it the end.
And that’s the song I was listening to
when he called that night;
“The End”, by The Doors.
eleven minutes and forty three seconds
of a call,
a surrender to death.
i was listening to that song on repeat
when my father said,
“i love you, Panshky. i can’t wait to come home tomorrow and hug you.”
But it wasn’t Dystonia that killed him
and it wasn’t just a heart attack;
my father died lonely
and long-long-longing
longing for a do-over with Anne
a second time around with Janet
another shot with Bobbi
one more kiss from Merrill
one last walk with Tina
and, yes
a better chance with Sharon, a fairer time with my mother.
My father told a good story.
a born-narrator with the steel-trap memory of an elephant,
he told me about Woodstock
as though he were still dancing in the mud
and the time he slid through the plate glass door
as though shards were still biting through skin.
He told me about the day I was born
as though he was still witnessing a miracle,
as though he was still so overcome with the ache of loving someone so much,
as though he just finished crying, “I’m sooo happyyyy” thirty two times on the phone to his mother.
“Like butter”, he said
“those sharp surgical scissors sliced through your cord like butter.”
I loved going places with my dad.
I loved when he took me to the zoo
and I’d yell, “get dressed, monkeys! your tushies are out and you don’t have any clothes on you!”
I loved when he took me to
Ports ‘O Call and we ate churros
(i called them “cheerios”)
I loved when he took me to the glass blower and I got to pick a special piece
each time
and i loved launching model rockets
he built.
“5...4...3...2...1 ignition, BLASTOFF!”
I loved hearing him say on a work call,
“buddy i gotta call you back; erica just walked in and i wanna spend time with her”
Every. Time.
I loved him laying in bed with me for hours
telling me made-up stories
teaching me long division, tracing his finger in the air
talking through my fears
sharing my joys
I loved feeling his soft, pudgy hand
over my forehead
as i vomited
and peed on his feet
I loved holding his hand as we crossed the street
even as a grown woman
I loved confiding in him
when i was thinking of having sex
with this high school loser
I loved seeing him in the front row
of every talentless talent show
every recital
every play
every speech contest
every graduation
giant Panasonic video camera affixed to his shoulder
it was hard to remember these things I loved
when he’d pick me up drunk in high school
or when he threatened to leave me and never come back in middle school
or when he said, “you’re just like your mother”
or when he put his hands on me and left a bruise for not wanting to go to a BBQ with him
or when he called me fat
or when he’d scream at cashiers, and condescend customer service reps over the phone just to be mean
it was hard to remember the good
when he made feel so bad.
i wonder, had he lived longer,
would i ever even remember the good
or would caring for a chronically ill, depressed, damned, devastated and disheartened dad slowly erode moments and entire years of,
“this is my dad, whom I love with my whole heart. in him i am well pleased.”
As you know,
relationships are as complex
as those who are blessed to be in them
our relationship was no different.
If eulogies are meant to highlight only the good and spare the nuance,
keep the sun and hide the rain
take the best and leave the rest,
then i don’t want any part of it
take this mic away
disperse and go home
I like my eulogies like I like life;
overflowing with conflict
beaming with meaningful moments
draped in doom
in celebration of love and it’s convoluted nature
and above all, true.
just as my dad descended deeper into the pits of despair and defeat,
he was dealt a heaping dose of mercy
mercy, mercy, mercy and peace
for this i am so grateful
his love for me is and will always be
a sticker to leather that never peels
and an ache in my belly that never heals
and a song in my heart he always sang:
🎶 A tiny turned up nose
Two cheeks just like a rose
I love you from head to toe
That little girl of mine.
You climb up on my knee
You are so good to me
To me you’ll always be
That little girl of mine.
No one will ever know
Just what you’re coming has meant
You’re all the world to me
Your something Heaven has sent
Two eyes that shine so bright
Two lips that kiss good night
Two arms to hold me tight
That little girl of mine🎶
Daddy,
I love you.
I remember you.
I honor the fullness of you
and every iteration of your time spent here with me.
I love you today,
I loved you yesterday,
and i will love you forever.
