Abi: You never truly say goodbye. [12/30]

I knew this day would come, and I’ve been trying so hard to detach myself from it and the memories I have. Today is, however, the anniversary of the biggest event that happened in my childhood (it was right on verge of my 18th birthday).


That morning I remember having a row with my dad about attending classes, as I always did. I think I finally convinced him that it was far too late for me to get ready (which was most likely a lie) and that he best get Amanda off before she was late. (Again, here I was being manipulative.)
I had some serious issues with school back then, between severe boredom and sheer anxiety attacks… but I was not a happy child come this part of my life… and for years to follow.


After he got back from taking Amanda to school he took some Aleve and I believe I’d made him some toast with butter. He told me he was going to go to the bathroom then head off to bed. I believe he worked nights at this time, because I remember the whole summer before this day that I’d wait up until 1AM when he’d got home and spent time talking to him and watching A-Team and whatever else came on the TVLand channel.

I had jumped online for the morning (we had the WebTV at the time, I believe I was hecatepower@webtv.com). I think I was sorting through some emails when I heard a loud noise in the bathroom. I didn’t know what happened, but I remember walking through the hallways in front of the bathroom and into my bedroom to see if I heard any more noises coming from the bathroom… or at least heard something to know I ought not worry.
I was a little panicked though, I remember asking if everything was okay, but the first time about had been quiet, I felt (I was being concerned, but trying to not bother my dad in the bathroom, you know).

So after awhile I asked again, and I knocked. I remember at some point my voice cracking as I called, “daddy,” to the unresponsive door.
I remember I couldn’t open the door, and not because it was locked, but because he was apparently laying on the floor blocking the door. I rushed to my sleeping mother, I remember it was dark in her room from the curtains that blocked most light (I think there was a street lamp outside that annoyed them at night).

It’s really a blur (or I just don’t want to clarify in my head), and I don’t know how well my memory holds the test of time and change. I know my mum called 911, they came in and worked to open the door and pull him out. I remember him laying in the hallway, and them trying to use the defibrillator on him a few times. They really gave me hope, seeing them do that, because I thought there was a chance that he would be okay… but I really don’t know why they did this, because he had, apparently (and not to my knowledge at the time) been dead before he hit the floor.

Calls were made… I know my Nana came over, and I’d called Dana… I remember Donna brought flowers… I think Amariah came over for a bit, as well, during this day or maybe the day to follow. I remember feeling so awkward, not sure what to say to anyone.
I remember having to maneuverer through the hallway around him and walk over my dad’s body (well, one of his legs) to get to my room and put my boots on. I remember this would haunt me for a long time.

I remember he laid there for what seemed like forever before they even attempted to move the body… before the coroners came to tuck him away in their station wagon. The police had questions, this is said to be normal…

I remember we were asked to leave come some point (maybe right before they moved his body) so they could look the place over, I guess. I don’t recall this much anymore.


I remember that the sun was a cold and lifeless champagne colour, and it tainted everything. 
Things moved sluggishly… I will never forget that feeling it gave to me... 


Nana had come over, she made us go downstairs while they were moving dad. I know this was the moment in my life my resentment grew towards my Nana by leaps. I wasn’t her daughter, I wasn’t her ward, and I never liked how she bossed people around (she always has been the one giving orders, and everyone seemed to follow her… I didn’t want to be that person). I knew she couldn’t MAKE me do any of it. I stopped fearing her that day and instead started to feel bitterness towards her (for several more years afterwards).
After dad was removed, we were told to clean up the house. My mum is a hoarder, just like Nana, save for mum lacks the impulse to keep things orderly, or clean for that matter… I never really felt comfortable having friends over because of this. Nana knew, though, that my other Nana and my dad’s family would be coming down from Polk County and we ought to make it look presentable.
Again, Nana was issuing orders, and I remember how it fuelled this hate inside me. The hell was this woman thinking about? My dad was just dragged dead from the bathroom less than two hours ago, and here you are telling me what I need to do! I can’t explain how much I felt doubly hurt by her actions, even though I know we all cope differently and that she never had ill intent… I just, it ruffled me so bad in those moments.


People came… people cried… I tried to hold it together, I remember trying to be the strong one for my mum for the next few weeks or more. I felt, even if briefly, our roles had changed, that I was the guardian and she the child…


I remember how the days came by like rolling fog. We never really felt hungry and had such issues agreeing on something to eat. Things just never felt right, time had shifted… something had broke, pieces were missing.


I remember that Teddie, my cat, slept on my bed with me suddenly, when she’d never done that before (she liked to nestle under my bed, or on the ottoman in the living room.


I remember meeting my mum in the hallway late one night, after we’d both had agreed we were going to bed, and laughing over how when you lay in bed your tears roll into your ears…


I remember going to the funeral home with one of my stuffed lemurs (I had a few) tucked inside my hoodie’s front.


I remember sitting next to my mum at the memorial and trying not to cry. I remembering the feeling, even if fleeting, that I had to be my mum’s rock now.


I remember that the church was empty without his voice, I mean EMPTY, and I would not just have the usual dislike of going to church, but I would have hate and ache as well for years to follow. (I literally was afraid to go for so long, because I didn’t want to feel that pain again.)


I remember waiting, for ages, for him to come home and to hear his keys in the lock of the front door.


I remember being so entirely LIVID at everyone for figuring what to do with my dad’s ashes while I was at school. I felt they took what was left of him away from me. They knew I wanted to preserve some ashes of him, for whatever reason I lingered on, but they went behind my back and my aunt’s took his ashes away with them to scattered them where one day they would scatter my Nana Pearl’s ashes (I think).


I blamed myself for so long, and maybe even a little today. Okay, that’s a lie, I still feel entirely guilty, but I try to dwell on it… I try to be detached from that feeling, for my own lucidity (or whatever you fancy that is that keeps me from being a lump of useless mush).
I feel guilty because I didn’t respond fast enough. I always feel that maybe instead of waiting after hearing the thud: I could have been louder, made sure he was okay, or then called 911 (before even bothering to wake my mum). I feel guilty because my waiting made it solid that they would be unable to help him.
I know they say that the blood to his heart just stopped suddenly, and he’d passed. They reassured me that he was dead within an instance and that even testing him the day before might have never suggested he’d die so soon…
But a part of me (my cynicism, my guilt, my paranoia, all of the above) feels they say that so I don’t feel so guilty…
I remember that I upset him that morning, we’d fought.
I remember that I was his failure daughter… that I was not what he wanted… that I was always the one causing problems, and stirring up arguments…
Naturally I would be the one to fail him that day.

Unlike Amanda, I think I’d been preparing for that moment for awhile. I remember trying to converse with a ‘boyfriend’ a week or so before, trying to convince myself that death was natural and even needed… I had this longing to feel that death would not mean the end of all, but potentially the beginning of something new.
I remember my ‘boyfriend’ and I fought over and I think we broke up over it, or started the break up for the pseudo-relationship.


I know I had the need to connect with Dad that summer before, and boy am I grateful I did… even if the stories he told are fading from my mind, I learned more about him that summer than ever before… I felt we finally bonded in some way. (Though I don’t recall being his favourite so much, like Amanda suggests. Even if we had our moments, I always felt the black sheep… the unwanted.)


The vacation they took before his death, I felt they needed together, alone. I couldn’t say I connected the thoughts with the coming of an end, but I am so grateful we were able to give that to them.




I distinctly remember the day before I had a glimpse in my head of me falling in the hallway near the bathroom, I remember a dropping of a glass.. I remember, I think, water on the carpet… and I remember that someone rushed to call 911. I have these flashes all the time, but this one was a little unsettling, because it was the first and only time it was an event where there was seriously wrong…
I didn’t think much of it that very day, because I had been trying for years to persuade my parents there was something wrong with me, that I was broken inside and I was always feeling ‘sick’… and I think I longed for an event like that to happen to me so they would see something was, indeed, wrong with me… but after dad passes that glimpse settled in my mind as a disturbing omen of sorts… as strange as this might seem.

Ah, so I think I’m ending this here, but I hope tomorrow to share some fond memories of my dad and my time with him.