The Burden of a Daughter’s Grief
My apologies for taking so long to finish the Staycation series. I do have a few more Staycation stories to share, and I hope to do that soon. I've been a tad too busy to write the past couple of months, so I've decided to pull some stuff out of The Vault. The vault, you say? This would be stuff I wrote a long, long time ago ... before there were blogs and before I had the courage to try blogging.
I seem to be in a season of remembering my Dad, so thought I would share this piece ... a scholarship essay I wrote, the spring of 2003, almost a year after my Dad died.
“Sometimes my life just don’t make sense at all. When the mountains look so big, and my faith just seems so small.” – Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins, poet and songwriter.
I played this song at my Dad’s funeral. It seemed deeply appropriate ... not only for how hurt and confused I felt, but I wondered if that’s how my Dad felt that day on May 13th, the day after Mother’s Day, when he put a pistol to his head and shot himself.
Dad could not seem to make sense of the various deaths and tragedies that bombarded his life over the past two years – including my diagnosis of breast cancer the previous fall. Already suffering from an anxiety disorder, Dad struggled with depression after losing his step-son (also a good friend and fishing buddy) to pancreatic cancer in early 2000. Shortly thereafter, Dad lost his own father to cancer in the midst of much unresolved anger and bitterness. This loss was followed by the news that a close family friend was dying of breast cancer and then came the news of my own breast cancer. More recently, he continued to worry about my health despite my excellent outcome and prognosis. Sadly, it seemed the stronger I became as I fought this battle by leaning on my faith, the more fearful he became. After losing his own mother to breast cancer over two decades ago, he simply had a hard time believing my cancer had been caught early enough for such an excellent prognosis.
Other things also contributed to his worry ... such as my step-sister’s welfare, since she was the only person taking care of her own father who was also dying of cancer. So much cancer and death had surrounded my Dad in the past two years that he was certain he was going to be the next victim – either through himself or me. Then came along another senseless death when a car accident claimed the life of a distantly related young woman of 17 years. It finally got to the point that any tragedy, regardless of how remotely related to himself, became a mountain suffocating my father’s soul and spirit.
Despite some of the differences we had, I really miss my Dad. I wish I could have protected him from the evil force that stole his happiness and ended his life. I wish I had known that fateful morning when I spoke to Dad on the phone for a whole half hour (rare for us, since he was not phone chatty) that he was contemplating suicide. I knew he was sad. I knew the recent change in his medication was not working and may have been making matters worse. I knew I needed to get to his house that evening to observe him for myself, to try and figure out what kind of help he needed in the event he wasn’t helping himself. The few people I had spoken to about Dad’s recent mood changes did not seem to be interested in pushing him towards the hospital or a doctor, but I would have if I just could have been given the chance. I tried my best in our phone conversation and he led me to believe that he wanted to get better, that he would be calling the doctor for a re-evaluation sometime that afternoon. Dad also asked me to pray for him, so I did. We said our “I love yous,” then hung up.
Hearing the news that my father shot himself in the head was far worse than hearing the news that I had cancer. While neither was expected, I had a chance to fight the breast cancer. I never had a chance to fight the suicide. At least a handful of people knew Dad had been spiraling downward for the past month. I only became aware during his last week of life. This and many other issues have only contributed to the anger that still simmers in my heart over this loss.
Because of my Dad’s problems and his unhealthy codependent relationship with his wife, Dad struggled to balance his love and attention between my family and his wife and her adult children. To promote my own emotional healing and well-being and to spare my Dad the anguish this self-inflicted, emotional “tug of war” seemed to cause him, I “let go of the rope” several years ago and simply cherished whatever type of relationship he was willing to have with us.
So, losing my Dad this way felt like one huge exclamation mark tacked onto the biggest rip-off of my life.
Although the scars from all my cancer surgeries have healed, this recent loss still deeply hurts, and that hurt is not going away for awhile. People tell me this is to be expected.
The day I buried my Dad, I had planned to attend an awards ceremony for a scholarship I had been awarded. Although Dad struggled to understand my desire and determination to pursue a college education, just two weeks prior to his death he told me he was proud of me for being awarded the scholarship. To some this may seem trivial, but to me it was important. Although this was my third scholarship award, it was the first one for which he had congratulated me ... so I’m very thankful he finally understood how important this goal was to me.
I’m also very thankful that I had the chance to talk with Dad a whole half hour the day he died. Right now, I am working very hard at remembering the good times, not just the sad ones. Although this is a very painful season for me, I refuse to let these difficult times suffocate my soul and spirit as it did my Dad. I plan to persevere. Someone told me that in time, I will finally arrive at the point where I just remember my Dad for who he was, his voice, his smile, how he looked and what he enjoyed ... not just the way he died. I hope so.
“Hold me Jesus, I’m shaking like a leaf. You have been King of my glory, won’t you be my Prince of peace?” – Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins, poet and songwriter.
It's been interesting to revisit the intense grief and pain I was feeling at that time. But in doing so, I'm also reminded of how much I've healed since then. For this I am both thankful ... and encouraged. I hope you are, too.
Cheri
P.S. I'm fairly certain the most significant nugget of healing involved letting go of the blame. Blaming myself. Blaming others. Forgiving myself. Forgiving others. Forgiving Dad. Ever find yourself there? If so, I pray God helps you release and forgive. (((hugs)))
If you are having suicidal thoughts, please contact the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline by dialing 988. There is help and hope.
I seem to be in a season of remembering my Dad, so thought I would share this piece ... a scholarship essay I wrote, the spring of 2003, almost a year after my Dad died.
“Sometimes my life just don’t make sense at all. When the mountains look so big, and my faith just seems so small.” – Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins, poet and songwriter.
I played this song at my Dad’s funeral. It seemed deeply appropriate ... not only for how hurt and confused I felt, but I wondered if that’s how my Dad felt that day on May 13th, the day after Mother’s Day, when he put a pistol to his head and shot himself.
Dad could not seem to make sense of the various deaths and tragedies that bombarded his life over the past two years – including my diagnosis of breast cancer the previous fall. Already suffering from an anxiety disorder, Dad struggled with depression after losing his step-son (also a good friend and fishing buddy) to pancreatic cancer in early 2000. Shortly thereafter, Dad lost his own father to cancer in the midst of much unresolved anger and bitterness. This loss was followed by the news that a close family friend was dying of breast cancer and then came the news of my own breast cancer. More recently, he continued to worry about my health despite my excellent outcome and prognosis. Sadly, it seemed the stronger I became as I fought this battle by leaning on my faith, the more fearful he became. After losing his own mother to breast cancer over two decades ago, he simply had a hard time believing my cancer had been caught early enough for such an excellent prognosis.
Other things also contributed to his worry ... such as my step-sister’s welfare, since she was the only person taking care of her own father who was also dying of cancer. So much cancer and death had surrounded my Dad in the past two years that he was certain he was going to be the next victim – either through himself or me. Then came along another senseless death when a car accident claimed the life of a distantly related young woman of 17 years. It finally got to the point that any tragedy, regardless of how remotely related to himself, became a mountain suffocating my father’s soul and spirit.
Despite some of the differences we had, I really miss my Dad. I wish I could have protected him from the evil force that stole his happiness and ended his life. I wish I had known that fateful morning when I spoke to Dad on the phone for a whole half hour (rare for us, since he was not phone chatty) that he was contemplating suicide. I knew he was sad. I knew the recent change in his medication was not working and may have been making matters worse. I knew I needed to get to his house that evening to observe him for myself, to try and figure out what kind of help he needed in the event he wasn’t helping himself. The few people I had spoken to about Dad’s recent mood changes did not seem to be interested in pushing him towards the hospital or a doctor, but I would have if I just could have been given the chance. I tried my best in our phone conversation and he led me to believe that he wanted to get better, that he would be calling the doctor for a re-evaluation sometime that afternoon. Dad also asked me to pray for him, so I did. We said our “I love yous,” then hung up.
Hearing the news that my father shot himself in the head was far worse than hearing the news that I had cancer. While neither was expected, I had a chance to fight the breast cancer. I never had a chance to fight the suicide. At least a handful of people knew Dad had been spiraling downward for the past month. I only became aware during his last week of life. This and many other issues have only contributed to the anger that still simmers in my heart over this loss.
Because of my Dad’s problems and his unhealthy codependent relationship with his wife, Dad struggled to balance his love and attention between my family and his wife and her adult children. To promote my own emotional healing and well-being and to spare my Dad the anguish this self-inflicted, emotional “tug of war” seemed to cause him, I “let go of the rope” several years ago and simply cherished whatever type of relationship he was willing to have with us.
So, losing my Dad this way felt like one huge exclamation mark tacked onto the biggest rip-off of my life.
Although the scars from all my cancer surgeries have healed, this recent loss still deeply hurts, and that hurt is not going away for awhile. People tell me this is to be expected.
The day I buried my Dad, I had planned to attend an awards ceremony for a scholarship I had been awarded. Although Dad struggled to understand my desire and determination to pursue a college education, just two weeks prior to his death he told me he was proud of me for being awarded the scholarship. To some this may seem trivial, but to me it was important. Although this was my third scholarship award, it was the first one for which he had congratulated me ... so I’m very thankful he finally understood how important this goal was to me.
I’m also very thankful that I had the chance to talk with Dad a whole half hour the day he died. Right now, I am working very hard at remembering the good times, not just the sad ones. Although this is a very painful season for me, I refuse to let these difficult times suffocate my soul and spirit as it did my Dad. I plan to persevere. Someone told me that in time, I will finally arrive at the point where I just remember my Dad for who he was, his voice, his smile, how he looked and what he enjoyed ... not just the way he died. I hope so.
“Hold me Jesus, I’m shaking like a leaf. You have been King of my glory, won’t you be my Prince of peace?” – Hold Me Jesus, Rich Mullins, poet and songwriter.
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| Me and Dad - Christmas 2001. |
It's been interesting to revisit the intense grief and pain I was feeling at that time. But in doing so, I'm also reminded of how much I've healed since then. For this I am both thankful ... and encouraged. I hope you are, too.
Cheri
P.S. I'm fairly certain the most significant nugget of healing involved letting go of the blame. Blaming myself. Blaming others. Forgiving myself. Forgiving others. Forgiving Dad. Ever find yourself there? If so, I pray God helps you release and forgive. (((hugs)))
If you are having suicidal thoughts, please contact the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline by dialing 988. There is help and hope.
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