Hey.
I was sitting in a pizza shop this Wednesday evening around 6:45pm. Got the call from my mother that my father had died. He was 61 years old.
After the call, I stared at my food and I thought: You have work to do. Eat, get your strength, and do not disappoint me, Jara. I called my brother, tried to call my sister. Threw food into my mouth, and canceled my plans for the evening. Walked back to the apartment, and as I stepped inside, I felt my stomach curdle and my knees began to buckle, and I choked back a scream, and I stood right up and I slapped myself hard three times because this was not the fucking time or the place for this.
All the shows I had planned to do or were doing, I canceled. I tried to have friends over to lessen the blow, but it didn't work.
Finally, after making preliminary plans with the siblings and mom and getting my affairs in order, I started working. I need work. I crave work. Work is what keeps me alive. I was listening to an album I just purchased (Florence + The Machine's LUNGS) and I stumbled upon the song "Cosmic Love", which cracked it all open.
If you know me, you know I'm prone to slight exaggeration. In all seriousness , from Wednesday night till now, I've been listening to that song on a near-constant loop and have heard it nigh on fifty times now. Around the first thirty minutes, I was just tearing up, working on degree plans for my day job and then something in the way the 8th time I heard the song got to me. It's at 1:20 in the song, when she sings the second verse:
and in the dark
i can hear your heartbeat
i tried to find the sound
but then it stopped
and i was in the darkness
so darkness i became...
And, if you've heard it, she starts losing it, screaming the notes in "became" all the way through to the end of the second chorus. And, independent of reason, I began to thrash violently, my head jerking in time with the music, and I was keening and wailing and singing in pitch as loud as I could and the hurt would not cease.
And this happens every single time I hear the song at this part now and I can't stop listening to it.
The stars, the moon
they have all been blown out
you left me in the dark
no dawn, no day
i'm always in this twilight
in the shadow of your heart
Before I tell you about the man I have lost, I want to make one thing expertly clear.
I love you all and know you mean well, but I do not want to hear or see these phrases from anyone at this point:
- I'm sorry for your loss.
-If you need anything let me know.
Or the equivalent thereof.
That's pity, and we only pity those we find weak.
And I am not weak.
I am simply pushing through this tragedy. I will be the same old wanton, empathic, kind, sardonic beast as before, in time.
Look, I've been there. Dealing with people in grief fucking sucks. Forced social coercion regarding an event which claims us all - death - and knowing deep down that nothing, nothing can ameliorate their sorrow devastates people. Because people want to help.
I'll tell you for free what people in grief might want.
They'll never voice this, because most people in grief like myself would gnaw off their arm rather than ask for help, but this is what they want:
- Be present and listen. Don't help. You can't. Just hear.
- Money. (Tacky ? Of course. But death accrues expenses and probate is woefully slow. Money lifts stress - if you'd like - there's a donate button for Paypal on this page)
- Silently help them clean.
- Make them laugh. For the love of all that is dear, please make them laugh.
- Show them your breasts (bonus points for dude breasts)
My father was a quiet, weathered mid-western voice; expressive and low. It's from him where my love of story began. From the bedtime stories he'd tell us as kids to the stirring anecdotes he'd tell us about his life, my father made it very clear that the craft of a good story was in the choice of a word and the cadence used to give that word purpose. Despite his general even-temperedness, we kids knew that his voice had power and fire behind it, that it could fill the whole room and strike fear when angered or surprised. Even the way he sneezed was so much larger than life and dangerous in tone. I loved his voice so, so much. I loved the way he said "warsh" instead of wash. I loved his singing voice and tried to alter my tinny, high pitched voice for years in an effort to sound as resonant and rich and calm as him.
My father wore Old Spice during my childhood, and on him, it smelled like strength and rugged, quiet confidence. It's the only thing I've worn as an adult, and it always reminds me of him and watching him apply it during family vacations.
My father taught me that you can give yourself the opportunity to do what you desire if you are willing to make any and all sacrifices such a ministry takes. His last words to me (this Monday night) were : "As long as you're doing what you love, that's what matters" That was his definition of success.
I've told you before about one of my father's greatest strengths : Faking . He was a master at it. To just roll up your sleeves and tackle a problem until the solution availed itself. I'm not saying it always worked, but it always made for a powerful lesson and an amazing story.
This is the perfect story to describe my father, his love, and his care. I've told it so many times, and I'll tell it again, because he was amazing and it should be heard :
1995. I was about to start my senior year of high school, and we were broke. My grades in school were commendable, I was part of a wide variety of volunteer groups and extra-curricular activities, but that wasn't going to be enough to get me out of my hometown and into college. My dad knew this. Because I was aware of how bad things were, money-wise, I asked my parents not to get me any gifts for my 17th birthday, which occurred during the first week of school.
The morning of my birthday, I get a knock on the door, and my dad comes into my room. I made you something, he drawled.
And then he pulled out a large office calendar and laid it softly on the bed. The calendar was covered with two kinds of ink: Red for one month prior, and Black for the final due date. In the back of the calendar, he had included application after application for scholarships. In the pre-internet world, my own father had spent months researching scholarships, printing out applications, and charting exactly when submissions were due. For me. 62 scholarships in all. I still tremble when I think about it.
That year, I completed all but five, and I won five scholarships from that batch. That, combined with serendipity allowed me to go to college.
He gave me so goddamned much, and now he's gone.
Here's the plan. I'm headed out next week to see my brother get married in Vegas, and we'll honor dad there as well. He always wanted a wake over a funeral, and I'd know he'd see me crying and crying over him and think: Well, son - you've got a choice. You can choose to let this own you, or you can let it pass and make room for what's to come. He was the one who taught me self-hypnosis, and the power of suggestion. To think for yourself, and to challenge any automatic prejudice. He taught me how to play blackjack and texas hold-em and how to predict when traffic lights will turn green and end up looking like a wizard to a group of children.
He had his college acting primer in his vast bookshelf (which I adored), and I still own it. I wish he had the chance to do more acting in his life, to be more confident in his singing. To have written more, to have dealt with his depression better. But I know that he loved my mother and his children so fiercely, and that this love gave him a quiet, well-deserved sense of reward.
After the wedding, I'll head to Oregon with my mom, and I'll stay there for as long as she needs me.
Dad, thank you for the time we shared, and for being a wonderful father. I hope I make you proud.
