Friday, July 29, 2016

A Long Grief

By now you may have discovered my mom died in 2009, then my guinea pig, then my dog. But my grief didn't end there. My biological father died April 5, 2010. But first the beginning.

My mom divorced my dad in 1968. At the age of 4, I stood on the stoop screaming "daddy don't go, daddy, don't go" until she dragged me into the house.  She quickly remarried and shortly after sold the home we had lived in. Visits with my dad were sporadic and always ended in bitter fights. One day, he didn't show up. That day turned into many more days. Then mom read me a letter from my dad that told me he was leaving forever and had written to say good-bye. Even today, I can remember and feel the disbelief. I was inconsolable. In response to my demand for answers, I was told he had moved to Colorado. That was the last communication I had with him. His name was Allen. 

I was legally adopted by my step-dad when I was 12. I remember the court room, raising my right hand and saying yes as instructed by my mother. My whole existence was wiped out that day. My birth records archived. A new name to begin middle school. Who would know me? I didn't know me. Middle and High School were horrible times in my life. I spent my high school years searching for him to no avail. 

It was the internet in the mid 1990's that gave me the means of finding him. In 1995 I sent him a letter. And so began a new relationship that lived the next 15 years through a few short visits and many long phone calls. I talked of my kids. He talked of his kids... the ones I didn't know. The half brother wanted nothing to do with me. My half-sister was sweet and friendly. Distance was a factor - they lived in Colorado; I in Illinois. As I fought illness after illness, it became hard to manage all the things in my life. But we stayed in contact. 

Then mom died. While mom was dying, Allen was going through heart surgery. He developed serious illnesses after the surgery. We always talked of getting together; both knowing it was just talk. That last year, he hid the fact that he was dying from me.  In March 2010, his wife called and said he was asking for me; could I come. He probably would not live through the night. I was on a plane that Monday night. When I came into the room, he opened his eyes and tried to speak to me. He could not talk coherently. Tears ran down my face and tears came to his eyes.  He couldn't talk, so I talked.  I stayed until Saturday. Leaving was hard. This was the final good-bye.  He passed away two days later on April 5, 2010. He was 69. 

The mild depression that I had been fighting spiraled into a deep depression from the grief. My health continued to decline as the shunt in my brain fought to handle the fluid adequately. A new brain surgery in 2011 opened the promise of better days. But the recovery was rough and gave the depression a new friend called flashbacks.  Depression is a serious topic and after living a life with the glass half-full no matter my circumstances, I found the glass chronically empty. My brain forced me to relive the worst memories of my life over and over as the swelling decreased at a snail's pace. 

It took years and years to climb out of that hole. My husband helped by never giving in to my depression; by demanding i get out of bed ... right now!  I would go to work as I was taught the value and responsibility of work. Then I would come home and climb into bed. My bed was my safe place. If I wasn't at work or the doctor, I was in bed with my dogs. On weekends, I would stay in bed hour after hour.

My daschund, Noodles, still tries to lead me to bed when I get home from work. On my bad sleepless nights, Noodles went with me to the darkest places a spirit can go. As I paced the house with her, she would lick my arm over and over until I set her down.  Then gently, she led me back to bed, to my husband, to life.  

I knew I had to find a way to deal with my grief. Nothing was working. And so I got a tattoo. Then I got a second one. Then I added to the first one. And grief ebbed and flowed with the tides but no longer pulled me under. My doctor's assurances that I would, one day get better, began to reveal itself through small pleasures I found. The light returned to my eyes.  

I am emotionally healthy and whole. I can talk about my anguish, about my joy, about my faith without tears. I can find pleasure in the big and little things in life. I'm back. 

I'm grateful for you, Dear Reader, as you are my new muse and my reason to write.