Da-Da
I’m going to start at the end of this story, and work my way backwards. I’m going to talk to you about a death. Later, I’ll tell you about the life that preceded it.
I want to tell you about my father. I think of him often, and I miss him. In my mind, I see pictures of him, and they’re as clear as if he were right here with me. It’s like carrying around a mental photo album filled with these little snapshots of his smile, his eyes, the dimple in his chin.
It’s funny, but there are other people from my past who have died, and though I feel their absences, they’ve all become faraway ghosts. Their images have grown faint and wispy with the passage of time, and the pain of loss has gradually diminished.
This isn’t the case with my father. He’s been gone for over a decade now, and sometimes it feels as though he’s still standing here. His voice, his mannerisms, his larger-than-life personality– it’s all right here. This clarity comforts me and makes my heart ache at the same time.
I ache for what was, and for what could have been.
For years, I’ve carried a little charm that belonged to him, a treasure that I snagged from his belongings after he died. It’s a metal four leaf clover, silver-colored, a couple of inches in diameter, the kind of charm they used to sell at the fair. He had his name engraved on it. It’s my talisman, and a reminder that my father had once been young and happy, if only for a little while.
Dad was complicated and mentally ill. There’s no gentle way to tell you about him. Due to his own father’s abusive behavior, he was damaged beyond repair, violent and angry, self-centered and cruel. He could also be incredibly charming. He had a wicked sense of humor; it could be twisted, but it was often hilarious and endearing. The memories that I cling to most tightly are those few sweet times when he was loving and gentle. I got to see this side of him more often than my siblings did. I’m the oldest child, his firstborn, and we all sadly agree that almost the entirety of his paternal instincts began and ended with me.
It was almost as though he was embarrassed about being a father, although I know that in his way, he loved us all. He signed his cards and letters “Da-Da,” and when grandbabies started arriving, he said that instead of “Grandpa,” he preferred to be called “Grand-Dude.” He just couldn’t take any of it seriously.
As adults, we were used to these idiosyncrasies; as children they were often difficult to understand.
“I’ll never win Father of the Year, that’s for sure,” he used to say. When my parents divorced, he dubbed himself “The Weekend Warrior.” We kids would stand at the end of the driveway, our suitcase packed, waiting for him to pick us for an overnight visit, but he’d often forget, or something better would come up. Usually, that “something better” was a woman.
But we all loved him dearly and desperately. He was a huge presence in our lives. We spent much of our childhoods fantasizing that somehow he’d magically change. He’d often play this game where he’d con us into believing that he was going to bestow some goodness on us. He’d offer us candy, a gift, a compliment. We’d watch him dangle it in front of us, yearning to believe that he was sincere. But almost always, it was just a humiliating trick. We kept coming back for more, wiping and re-wiping the slate, dreaming each time that things would be different. But they never were.
Even his death was a cruel trick, in a way. He committed suicide, and he did it on Father’s Day. He was fifty-seven years old.
By the end, life had worn him down completely. In his younger days, he drank, he drugged, he drove fast cars and chased women. He married three times and divorced three times. He worked hard and played harder. But gradually, a case of childhood polio developed into post-polio syndrome. He became exhausted and deflated, an amputee confined to a wheelchair.
The last time I visited him, his arms were too weak for him to lift a spoon. I placed a dish towel around his neck, sat in front of him and fed him.
“Isn’t it funny how things change?” he asked me in a rare moment of tenderness. “I remember doing this for you when you were a baby.”
Life had always presented huge challenges for my father, and he relished battling his way through them. Now he couldn’t even feed himself. He was a fighter, but at that point, there was no longer anything worth fighting for. There was nothing left to prove, no reason for machismo or pride. Housebound, alone with his crazy cat, his television set and his painful memories, he’d become a caged animal, and he wanted to end his misery.
He lived violently, and he died violently. A gunshot in the mouth and it was all over. A fitting end, really.
We knew he was going to do it. He’d been telling us he would. In his last months, we made desperate calls to mental health professionals, doctors and the police. But my father was a stubborn man, and no one could stop him.
A HAZMAT team had to come and clean up the blood. I sat outside under the lone birch tree in his yard while they shredded his mattress, his recliner and his carpets. Tears streamed down my face and I hummed a little tune to drown out the sound of their machines. Absent-mindedly, I plucked at the grass that surrounded me, and looked up at the deep blue sky. Suddenly, a low-flying hawk swooped in front of me, across my line of vision, big and beautiful and free. Then, for some reason, I looked down into my hand.
There, in my palm, was a perfect four leaf clover, the only one I’ve ever found in my life.
Next: There’s a Man Who Leads a Life of Danger
Alyson said,
January 14, 2008 at 11:48 am
Wonderful post. I loved how you tied everything together with the clover.
Your story reminds me of someone I know. Her father was in an accident that left him unable to care for himself. Just after Christmas 1 year ago he committed suicide.
You are so strong to have come through everything and be able to talk about it with total strangers.
@ Alyson: Thanks. My dad’s not that hard for me to talk about. In fact, I love talking about him. But it’s the whole mud pie thing- it’s hard for people to hear (or read), and that makes me feel bad. But I’m writing about all of my life, and this is a part of it.
moonbeammcqueen said,
January 14, 2008 at 12:44 pm
Don’t know why my comments are out of sequence, but I can’t seem to fix it.
Little Miss said,
January 14, 2008 at 12:49 pm
Wow. Nice story, MB. I like how you leave the reader to interpret just what the four leaf clover really was. It’s amazing how you have survived this and not let it turn you into someone bitter and resentful.
Thanks, LM. No, really, I am bitter and resentful. I just didn’t write about that part. Just kidding.
leakyfaucet said,
January 14, 2008 at 1:12 pm
I love all your posts, but this one is really great too! I can’t imagine how difficult it is/was for you and your siblings to forgive your father for his wrongdoings, but the fact that you could visit him and feed him just seems so symbolic of your strength. I think you’re an excellent example of someone who used a negative thing to make them a better person instead of as an excuse to be mean/bad/miserable.
Have you ever considered writing for the NPR program “This I Believe” or for The Sun (not the celebrity tabloid, but thesunmagazine.org)?? I can see your writing there and they pay too!
Thanks, LF! I’m not sure how strong I am, but I really did love my dad. All of us did. There was something about him that endeared him to everyone, while at the same time he mortified them.
I have considered writing for both the Sun and NPR. I’ll have to send them some stuff. I need to pay for grandma’s operation.
David said,
January 14, 2008 at 1:12 pm
Pretty amazing post moonbeam. You are courageous, as Brian says.
Suicide is such a horrible thing, and yet, we would want to have that option if the misery were too much to bear. How much pain is one expected to take? Do you think that your father actually picked Father’s day to be his last?
My daughter has always had this wonderful knack for finding 4-leaf clovers. Once she even found a 5-leaf clover.
Thanks, David. I really don’t think it’s courageous. It’s just the way things were.
I never got upset with my father for committing suicide. I thought about it much as you described. He had such a miserable life, and it never seemed to get much better. A lot of it was his own doing, but a lot of it wasn’t. And yes, he intentionally picked Father’s Day.
Your daughter is so lucky! I’ve looked for them since I was itty-bitty, and that’s the only one I’ve ever found.
David said,
January 14, 2008 at 1:14 pm
Brian’s comment has a magical property! It keeps being the last in the list. How’d he do that?
I don’t know, but he’s sort of spooking me! I’ve had to answer my comments differently, until whatever glitch that’s happening stops.
joanharvest said,
January 14, 2008 at 1:22 pm
I don’t know what to say. I guess the first thing is, I’m glad you shared this with us. Did I cry? Yes. How could I not. I’ve only been writing my blog a short time and I’ve taken some crazy things that have happened to me and made people laugh. I’ve held back so far on the stuff that would make people not laugh. But anything I’ve been through doesn’t compare to you sitting under a tree with tears streaming down your face. Yet at the same time, I appreciate your compassion and understanding of your father’s problem’s. Also, the way you wrote this was compelling and very powerful. On January 16th it will be 8 years since my father passed away. I wasn’t sure if I could ever write about it but after reading about you and your father maybe I can. Thank You.
Thanks, Joan. I really don’t think my pain is worse than yours. Pain is pain, for crying out loud. I love reading your blog, and it doesn’t matter if you tell “fork in the eye” stories, or something else about yourself that might not be so pleasant. For me, they’re all pieces of you that you’re presenting, and as everyone’s been saying, some of it’s sugar cookies, and some of it’s pizza. With anchovies.
Brian said,
January 14, 2008 at 2:51 pm
I don’t know what is going on with the comments. I was the first one who posted, but now I’m the last. Maybe it’s Biblical or something.
Either it’s biblical, or my father’s reaching down into my blog from the Great Beyond. I told you, he was a powerful force!
Brian said,
January 14, 2008 at 3:14 pm
Your fathers must have been a very tortured soul, and I hope that he is finally at peace. You described your feelings so beautifully that it was like reading poetry.
You’re a strong, courageous woman, Moonbeam.
@ Brian: That’s exactly how I describe him– a tortured soul. I completely understand why he did what he did. He was tired, and he needed peace.
Heather said,
January 14, 2008 at 6:23 pm
Hi, this is my first comment, but I have been lurking for a couple of weeks, and loving your snarking, smart-a$$, style.
My family has had it’s share of tortured souls who ended their own suffering.
I do know some of what you are going through.
So much of what you wrote about your dad could have been written about any number of family members of mine. Sad that those behaviors are so universal.
I look forward to reading more about your dad.
Blessings and Peace,
Heather
Heather, I’m so glad you’ve been lurking (and liking). I know that suicide tends to run in families, and I’m so sorry that you’ve lost family members to it. While it’s sometimes understandable, it’s difficult for us “left behinders.”
I’ll write more about my dad soon.
iondanu said,
January 14, 2008 at 6:50 pm
Oh, boy oh boy, Moonbeam! I think that the hawk was maybe your father, free at last! (I know it’s probably stupid to believe and reincarnation but it’s not stupidest than believing in Hell and Paradise; I always believed that my mother – when her time will come, may that time be a long time from now, as well as for my father!…- will be some cat or maybe a beautiful mare which will come to intersect again with my life) and you know something: I do sign my letters to my children TT (tata, the equivalent of dada in Romanian)…
I like to make that connection between my dad and the hawk too. It comforts me to connect the symbolism to his death, because I do like thinking of him as finally being free. It was amazing, for a long time after he died, I started seeing hawks everywhere– even one with a snake in its mouth, which is supposed to be good luck.
I love the thought of reincarnation, much less wasteful than plain old death!
~m said,
January 14, 2008 at 6:52 pm
Wow.
This must have been so difficult to write.
I can relate in many ways. I have to agree with you on the clarity of memory and who it is that remains vivid.
My dad is currently in the late stages of Alzheimer’s and to be honest I no longer love him, I love the memory “of” him, if that makes any sense.
It seems to me that in writing down the story of your father, you’re healing as well.
I can only hope.
be safe, be well . . . &
keep the faith
~m
Hi ~m. It was difficult, only in trying to figure out how to explain such a complicated man (I’m still working on it), and trying not to made him sound too awful! He really had some good qualities. I’ll write more about him, and it will be happier (I hope!). I don’t know if you ever completely heal from losing a loved one, but writing about Dad does help.
Grace said,
January 14, 2008 at 9:02 pm
“He lived violently, and he died violently.”
Though memories aren’t as clear for me, so much of the sentiment is the same.
Very well written
Thanks, Grace.
randomyriad said,
January 14, 2008 at 9:17 pm
Wow, relationships with parents are so complex. The fact mental illness was part of the picture just makes it more confusing for children . You have done a good job so far of conveying some of these complexities. He must have tried at least a little to come through some of his issues or you would not feel comforted by his presence. Thanks for sharing.
Hi, RM. They are complex. I think his presence comforts me because despite everything, he was my father, and I loved him dearly. I learned a lot about his background, and I gained understanding of why he was the way he was.
Wendy said,
January 14, 2008 at 10:32 pm
This was beautiful, and brave. Brian’s right, it was like reading poetry.
Thanks, Wendy.
micey said,
January 14, 2008 at 10:51 pm
this is a beautiful testimony, thanks for sharing it. <3
Thank you, micey.
Red said,
January 15, 2008 at 8:22 am
So incredibly powerful, this post. And wonderfully written. It’s sad, yes. But in the way you spoke of your Pops made me smile.
Awww…thanks Red. There were things about all of it that make me smile too. My dad was quite a character.
CuriousC said,
January 15, 2008 at 9:32 am
Powerful stuff. Thank you, C
As always, thank you!
gypsy-heart said,
January 15, 2008 at 11:49 am
So many connections Moonbeam…I am the oldest too, and I so well know the story of sitting packed to go and no show. It would not surprise me in the least to run into each other at a family reunion.
I think some are not meant for this world for whatever the reason. Seems he just grew tired of wrestling the demons.
I do know that those that are just “beyond the veil” send us signs, and can appear.
It is all that past that makes us who we are though…and my dear, I say you are “gifted with pen.”
On a lighter note….as I tell my children at least no one can ever say our family is boring,,,,god save me from the “b” word!.
I’ll look for you at the next reunion.
Wow…I think I will see you at the next reunion!
ellaella said,
January 15, 2008 at 12:31 pm
So beautifully written, perfectly told. I wish I could hug you.
My father was killed when I was just a girl. His birthday is this month; my mother died on his birthday and I don’t think it was any more of a coincidence than your four-leaf clover.
Peace be with you.
Awww…thanks ella. I’m so sorry about your dad. I wish I could hug you too. I love these serendipitous things that run through our lives.
Jamie said,
January 15, 2008 at 2:31 pm
You’re extremely courageous to share such things with us, whether you realize your courage or not. Thank you.
Thanks, Jamie. I’m just putting down my story, and some of it’s not so purty. But it’s all a part of the picture.
the memory of Him « Smoke & Mirrors said,
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David said,
January 15, 2008 at 9:29 pm
Moonbeam, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I so wonder about that gesture of selecting Father’s Day to end it all. As a choice of final days it could be celebratory or condemning. Fatherhood, no matter how it’s actually practiced, is the most important function of a man’s life against the gaping maw of eternity. In the face of all my many imperfections, a huge part of my life’s satisfaction and contentment is contained in the life of my daughter and the hope for the children that she and her husband will someday raise … On the other hand, if one were ashamed of and disgusted with one’s marriages and progeny thereof, exiting on that “Hallmark holiday” could as easily make the statement “screw all of you!” … Tough to come to any conclusion here, but from your description of your father’s intensity, I lean towards feeling that his choice of that day was an affirmation of his finest achievement, bringing his children into the world.
I’d never take it the wrong way, and I want to hug you for your thoughtfulness. Although I’d love to believe that my father was capable of such sentiment, by the end of his life, he was very bitter and angry with the world, and that included his children. He was definitely sending out message number two, lashing out one final time. I can never blame him or be upset for that– he was really, truly sick. It’s very hard on my brother during Father’s Day, and that does make me sad.
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A Must Read « In Repair said,
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[...] Da-Da Part 1 Da-Da Part 2 Da-Da Part 3 Da-Da Part 4 This entry was written by Brian, posted on January 17, 2008 at 5:50 pm, filed under Personal and tagged Blogging, Friends, Moonbeam McQueen, Suicide, Writing. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post. Post a comment or leave a trackback: Trackback URL. « Make That Change [...]
RubyShooZ said,
January 26, 2008 at 12:21 pm
Sounds like you’re not alone by a far shot. I know so many people who have had family members end their lives like this – I’m just so sorry. Thanks for sharing it. I’m sure by sharing this you’ve helped someone today.
Always love, always peace.
RubyShooz:I’m not sorry any more. I’ve learned to be thankful for what my father taught me (although I’m sure he never realized that he was teaching us anything!), and to respect his decision. I wish it could have had a different outcome, but I understand. I hope it does help someone.
Always love and peace to you too. You’re in my thoughts often.