Prolifically Raw: Remembering My Dad & The Lessons of Death

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Remembering My Dad & The Lessons of Death

May these words be helpful to all who read them!

Today is the anniversary of my father�s death. It was Steve who reminded me, just a few days after Thanksgiving.

�You know,� he said, �if you need some time to yourself, let me know and I�ll take the kids.�
I said, �What do you mean, time to myself?�
�Oh, you know,� he said, �since it�s that time of year and all.�

Let�s get it out there, I was in my car and on the phone. True to my theory about my gas-guzzling hunk of metal and cell phones, I was predictably desensitized to everything except my intended destination. Steve totally caught me off guard and like those pop up windows that invade your computer when you are trying to buy a book on Amazon, my head was full of pop up comments.

�You forgot the anniversary of your own father�s death, what a jerk, Jennifer!!�

and

�It�s okay, maybe this year you�re really over it, yeah that�s it. No jerk, you�re better!�

There were plenty more pop up�s directed at my messenger, Steve, which I articulated. I said it was funny he�d remember this year, when I wasn�t actually living with him, which brought a laugh twisted around irony. �See, I finally figured a few things out about you,� he said.

As usual, I slipped into that mode I�ll call survival girl, also known as tough-girl-who-doesn�t-need-anyone-to- care-about-her and told Steve it was sweet of him to think of me but no worries. �I�m doing great this year,� I said.

Now, I am my keyboard, my heart defrosting int a little puddle at my feet and I know I wasn�t telling him the complete truth.

I have been irritable, bordering on despair, several times in the last few days. Just after Thanksgiving, I confessed to one friend, while whining about a personal drama, that I hated this life.

I only say those words when I come to this time of year but even that statement didn�t cause me to stop and consider. I just blew my nose and got back on the super highway of life. Then my irritation and despair funneled down to my son, who had one of the most difficult weeks, emotionally, that I�ve witnessed in months. Making no connection, I actually heard myself saying to Steve, �what�s going on with Spencer, he�s so moody?�

Steve said, �he�s just like you, Jennifer.�

Translation�ahem�do you think you might want to pay attention now, Jennifer?

Why didn�t I see the signs and recognize them? How did I miss them, yet again?

I suppose it�s just human nature to move away from pain. We seek pleasure, avoid pain and thus, end up in a cycle that repeats itself over and over again, year after year. I�m no exception. No matter how much I have talked about, written about and thought about the losses of my past, I am still affected by them. Death is one of life�s greatest teachers. It�s the one thing that will happen to every single one of us (like birth) and that we have absolutely no control of. We don�t know when, how, why or who is going to affect this experience. It�s completely in the hands of the fates. We are scared to death of death. I�ve seen my mother, father and brother die and yet, I am still turning my back on all of its potent lessons.

If I let death do the job of explaining things, it becomes a force that teaches many lessons, one being how lucky I am in my own life. What is more valuable than the kindness of a man, who has gone through a difficult year of his own, calling to say, �hey, I remembered and I care enough to help you remember?� What is more prized than his bonus gift of a �little time� to reflect? What is more essential than this moment, as I sit in the shadows of my little house, my children dreaming of Christmas below me while I have the luxury to tap away on these keys?

This week, I�ve gotten many letters from readers saying thank you for what I write. Just thanks. There aren�t even questions from so many of you. It�s stunning.

Sometimes I think my heart is like rawhide, toughened into immobility by the experiences that came before now but here I am, thinking about the way things really are and it�s not true. Life is a great gift. Death makes it more so since it�s coming closer with every inhale.

Death also shows me that things are not as they appear to our naked eye, magic is possible and perhaps what exists right now as I sit in the tragedy of my father�s death and go back to that 9-year-old girl of 1973, who in ten days, will turn ten and face the world without a mother or a father. Can she hear me in the shadows, making the promises of today?

�Hey, Jennifer this day sucks but look forward a few years. You�re going to have a golden baby girl who will dance while you play piano. You�re going to have a brave brown eyed boy who won�t be spooked by Harry Potter movies and will hold your hand and say �it�s okay, Mom, those spiders aren�t real.� You are going to live a life that makes a difference. You�re going to make it through this time, Jennifer, keep the faith.�

I remember that day as if it was yesterday and I was in the center of the worst despair I had ever known and yet, up my spine there was something in me that knew it was true. Life was going to kick the sh*# out me but it was going to get better and I was going to learn a few things in the meantime.

And one more thing about death, it's a great equalizer. We're all going to do it. It makes me expand my view from the narrow perspective of myself to wonder about my father. How did that all go for him, anyway?
I can only imagine how torn up he was by the failing of his 39 year old heart. He had all the fruits of life in the palm of his hand; youth, brains, education, energy and faith. He loved life and wanted to live it more than anyone. When I met Josephine (who I named for my Dad) I knew she carried a bit of his essence since she was so happy to be back in the game of life. What a terrible thing for him to have to die like he did, so much unfinished business, so many regrets. Once I see the story from his side, I know my own difficulties have been mild.

"I make it my religion to live and die without remorse or regrets."
~From the One Hundred Thousand Songs of Milarepa

LETTERS:

A woman, who recently finished her own memoir wrote: Collecting and categorizing ALL of these memories has been SO THERAPEUTIC!!!!!! What has been most amazing is that after I have written a memory down and explained it's effect on me, I am then free to let the memory go. Not that I forget it, but that it finally has a home to rest in instead of my head. I bet you know exactly what I mean by that. It's as if we have to carry around those memories in our heads as private monuments to the fact that we lived through such huge injustice and pain. The only proof we have is the memory. By recording them on paper, organized and orderly, it's as if my brain can heave a huge sign of relief.

It is a relief to write our memories, but I have to confess, the 100% cure probably won�t come from writing alone. It hasn�t for me. I think annual reflection is part of the formula but I�d really like to hear how other people are coping. Send mail, let�s see what�s going on.

I am thinking of going back and getting a hold of the original police report I gave when my mother took me to the police station to report the (sexual) abuse. Do I have a right (as the victim ) to have a copy of this report? How about reports of court dates and Social Worker reports? Before I start my search do you think I would have luck with any of this? Or more so would it help me in writing my experience?

Yes, you have the right to all documentation about your life, this is how Blackbird began but BEWARE and I mean B E W A R E!! Once the mail starts coming in, nothing is going to be the same again. My mother�s medical records were a Pandora�s Box. Memories, that my psyche had protected me from, spiraled in front of my eyes and I had a hell of a time picking up the pieces. I almost passed out from the overload of suppressed emotion. Move with great caution, respect and kindness. Surround yourself with support you can trust. ALSO, read Susanna Kaysen�s Girl Interrupted.

Hi Jennifer,I have just finished reading both your books, Blackbird and Still Waters. I can't reallyput into words how I feel, emotional, humble, inspired etc etc. Put it this way, I have just put your book down and now I am on the internet. I have a question - I hope I am not intruding - have you ever considered finding out about your real parents?

You know, I wrote a story about my birth mother in Show Me the Way. It was probably the finest story in that collection, about the journey of life verses the call to go back to our beginnings. It�s called Links and explains some thoughts about being adopted. Speaking about it now, I don�t have a great deal of time to go in search of them. I let this fall to the fates, meaning, if we are meant to meet, we will.

Dear Ms. Lauck
I'm a student at Glendale Community College (Arizona). I chose "Black bird" to be my final assignment. I cried many times when I read the book. I'm a mother of two boys (8 and 3 years old) I love my sons very much. Thus, when I read your story, I could not believe how you can handle it when you are just a little girl. I sympathized with you very much. I wanted to share any distresses with you. I almost lost my Mom when I was one year old. At that time, my sister was eleven years old and she spent a lots of time to take care our Mom after school. She told me she so scared that she could not see my Mom when she come back from school and my Dad will remarried. The mysterious disease made my beautiful Mom pale and thin. People told me "your Mom still alive till today by miracle." My sister is same old like you and now I'm thirty-five years old. In my country has a proverb "may doi banh duc co xuong, may doi me ghe ma thuong con chong." it means "the kind of this cake never has bone inside, the stepmother never love husband's children." I admired your courage, your vigor to survive. After I read the book, I shared the story with my oldest son (he was very interested and I promise him that will borrow this book from library for him to read when he grows up more..) I always take Jenny like exemplary to advise my son to be better. I wish I will have chance to read your next book "Still Waters" and more of yours because I love true stories. Thanks for your book. Thanks for this e-mail address which give me a chance to open my heart with you. On December, 7th 2004 is the day I will present your book in front of my class. I will present the best to make my classmate remember you forever. I wish you have strength to write more beautiful books for readers.

This woman breaks my heart with her compassion. I write this, not because she�s saying all this great stuff about my book. My book hardly matters in light of her openness. She is the true inspiration and that�s how I feel about all your letters. I have yet to receive one unkind letter (wish I could say the same about reviews!!)

I don�t write all your words here but your empathy and concern are a source of encouragement. So often, I feel sad that I get busy and hardened and cynical enough to only see a world that is equally busy, hardened and cynical. Your letters and words wake me up. Thanks.

Thanks to you too, Steve. Maybe next year, I�ll remember!