Is there a funeral?
They don’t have any friends
– just the family there…
This was the answer when I asked if there would be funeral
for my Dad.
My Dad died two days ago.
Fuck.
Let me say that again.
My Dad died two days ago.
Inhale. Exhale.
Today I watched that episode of Grey’s Anatomy where George’s
dad died. And Christina told him that he was now in the dead dads club. And how
no one wants to be in it and no one knows what it’s like to be in it unless
they are in it. And I cried. I cried more for the death of George’s dad than I
did for my own.
That’s not to say that I’m done. I can tell that I've only
scratched the surface of the grieving that I have to do. But the funny thing
about grief is that it decides when it comes and when it is finished. Of course,
it would way more convenient if it would come during the two days I took off work to process the death of my father.
The death of my father.
Inhale. Exhale.
But grief doesn’t work that way. Particularly when you have
a hard time getting into feelings.. like I do. Grief cares nothing for convenience.
Grief cares nothing for what works best for your schedule. Grief comes when it
comes and goes when it is finished and not a moment before.
So now my two days off is over and I’m still foggy and numb
and feeling a little like a marionette whose strings are controlled by someone who
isn’t really that good at controlling a marionette. Jerky. Jumpy. Twitchy.
And emotions are right there. RIGHT THERE! Trapped in my throat
and in my eyes and in the tension building in my shoulders. But they won’t
come. I even made a playlist to help. Christ. You have no idea. If ever a playlist
was written to bring on some tears, this is it. And it worked a bit. Last night
there were a few. A couple of quick muffled sobs onto the shoulder of the loved
one who had her arms wrapped tightly around me. But it comes and then it goes
like that scene in Backdraft… remember how the smoke flows out under the door
but *whoosh* and it is sucked back in? Just like that.
Many of you have been on this journey with me. You sat in strength
and stillness when three years ago on Father’s Day I shared that I choose freedom.
You cried with me when that man learned that his child’s name is Jackson and Jackson has a Dad. And
you celebrated with me the day that my Dad met Jackson for the first time.
And I’ve said the words and typed the words and cried the
words.
My Father. My Dad. My Daddy. The man who rescued me from the
boogey man at night. The man who woke me in the night because he dreamed I drowned
and simply had to know I was alright. The man who coached my soccer team and
took me to dinner and was my biggest fan for a very short amount of time.
Also the man who called me dumb. And fat. And afraid. And asked me what was wrong with me… a voice
that would echo in my brain for years and years and years.. what is wrong with you? Also the man who
sent me from his home before I was ready and changed the entire trajectory of my
life.
The man who accepted the change of my name with more grace
and beauty than any member of my family. The man who…. well, I don’t know if he
knew I was his son.. I don’t know if he understood. I don’t know if he got it.
I don’t know if he accepted.
You see, the phone calls to my dad got really hard right at
the time of my transition. And they never got easier. He grew less and less coherent.
My words seem to make less and less sense to him.
I wish he had had more of a chance to get to know his son
Jackson. To see and hear and connect with the man I have become. It would feel good
to me to know that he got it.. that he accepted me..
I asked yesterday if it is harder to lose a parent when you
are close to them or when there is distance and disconnect and trauma and a painful
history.
They are different, I think. Two different things. Both grief.
Both heavy. Both heartache. But different.
When I did find some feelings today, it was about George’s
dad from Grey’s Anatomy. And my Dad. And how the window is closed now. My
opportunity to have a tender and supportive and nurturing Dad – one like on
television – one like Mr O’Malley or Cliff Huxtable or that guy from Family
Ties – that is passed. There were so many things that I needed and wanted my
Dad to be. Reasonable and rational things to want. Things that a child is
supposed to get from their Dad, and we never stop being our parents’ children
even though they sometimes stop parenting us long before we are ready to stop relying on them.
And there is still so much pain and regret and heartache
from what happened to me when I was an adolescent. But also there are beautiful
memories of singing in the car with him and his large hands on my tiny ones as
he pulled me around and around on a frozen pond. There are memories of laughter
and touch and connection. Memories of how, for a short while, I was my Dad’s favorite
human and he made me feel so very special. There is no special feeling like
your Dad treating you special. It seems most everything after left me wanting
and aching for more.
And while my empathy for people who scarred me deeply is in
short supply, I feel empathy for my Dad. To build a life so small that there
will be no funeral because there are so few people to have it for. It hurts my
head and the loss hurts my heart and the old deep scars hurt my entire body and
I don’t know how to shift it up and out and through.
And in the midst of that, I feel gratitude for a life I’ve
built surrounded by friends and loved ones and partners and sisters and brothers
and siblings of choice who fill me and love me and support me and meet me where
I am. Always.
My Dad died two days ago.
I still am not sure what to do with that.
Live I guess.
I will live. As Jackson. As a man who would make any father
proud. And when I find myself thinking of him, I will try to remember the
superhero who could fix anything and build anything and frighten away any
monster.
That was my Dad. That is the Dad I choose to hold. And in that… is the Dad I
lost.
