Farewell

The day before my last post, I called the hospice and had the nurse hold the phone up for him.  He was by then too weak to do so himself.  And, I told him what had been on my mind those previous two weeks.  I told him how I did remember the good times.  I told him about Red River Valley.  And, I told him that I did still love him, too.  He must have said it himself half a dozen times when I went to visit, but I didn't, couldn't, reply in kind.  I knew I needed to.  I knew that that part was still there, as much as it had been pushed away, buried, forgotten.  I told him.  And then I said goodbye.

He fell into a coma within an hour, from which he did not awake.  He passed two days later.

I went to his funeral on Saturday.  To many, I justified it by saying it was the right thing to do.  It was right to be there and support family members I am still close to.  In all honesty, though, I needed to be there for myself.  

I arrived a few minutes late and sat alone in the back of the church, so as not to disrupt anything.  It was.. surreal.  Surreal to look ahead at this little box and think that is this man who always had "Big" attached to his first name.  The great grizzly bear of a man was this little box.  I couldn't comprehend it.

The gathering was small- 20 some close relatives and a handful of fraternal order "brothers".  The service was short, but meaningful.

The "brothers" gathered in front and delivered their own service after the religious passages were read.  I was struck by some of their words, and later asked for a written copy.  

Let us, therefore, preserve his memory and dwell on all that was good and amiable in his character.  That our Brother was faultless cannot be supposed, but just as we shall all appear before the Almighty Judge, let our hearts register only our Brother's virtues.  Farewell, my Brother; you have gone to meet your God, and may He approve of you.  May we be faithful and when our end approaches, may our eyes be closed in peace.

May he rest in peace, and may those of us left behind to wrestle with the past find peace as well.

Remembering the Red River Valley

I love music.  I have a wide range in interest, thanks in part to my parents- all four of them.  I also have a tendency to memorize lyrics quickly, and I often find myself quoting lines in certain situations. I associate songs with individuals, with events, with memories of completely random and otherwise insignificant moments.  

It's no surprise,then, that there's been a song stuck in my head these last couple of weeks.  For years I did not allow myself to think of the good times, the times before the molestation.  I was focused on avoiding thinking about the abuse and the abuser- and that included the happy memories with him.   When I began therapy, the focus turned to reliving, redefining, and responding to the abuse itself.   All along, that other side of the former parent-child relationship, those other memories, were necessarily and unconsciously squashed.  Faced with his all too human mortality, the memories came flooding back.  It has made for days of conflicting and contradicting emotions; at times nonchalant, and at other times overcome by heart-wrenching sobbing.  One of those memories is listening him to him play his guitar some nights, much like Pa Ingalls and his fiddle.  It is a happy memory, now encased in sadness.  

Come sit by my side if you love me

Do not hasten to bid me adieu

Just remember the Red River Valley

and the cowboy who loved you so true

I remember.

A Step Toward Closure

Closure: a feeling that an emotional or traumatic experience has been resolved

Closure: a lovely thought, but a concept that has always been in some ways unfathomable to me

I am blessed, and cursed, with a great memory.  I remember dates, and events, and most importantly, feelings.  A song, a spoken word, a random memory- and I can relive past horrors that keep me awake at nights.  I will often forgive, but I almost never forget.  Avoid, yes.  But never forget. 

I have been in counseling for the abuse for a year now- a rollercoaster of a year with several gut-punching lows and a few extraordinary highs.  I’ve learned that it’s not enough to simply say “letting go has never been my forte”.   If I want to break the habit of avoidance, while at the same time not allowing those traumatic experiences to break me, I have to learn to let it go.

"Let go and let God” is an expression I’ve often heard.  I’ll admit, I’m jealous of those who have the kind of faith that allows them to do that.  During my various religious odysseys, I’ve attempted to obtain it.  “Fake it until you make it”, right?  It never worked- and in the end, it just wasn’t for me.  No, for me “letting go” will be a different experience.  Letting go by letting it out- by writing, and sharing.

I attempted to let go of the pain and insecurities stemming from my husband’s relationship with another woman (his requested caveat, again: we were separated) by writing her a letter.  It was cathartic.  Whether or not she ever replied was not the point.  There were things I needed to say, and things I hoped would be true for the unchartered future. 

Likewise, I decided that I would write a letter to my abuser.  Everything that had gone unsaid since January 1995, everything that was kept in silence; an effort to extract the poison that had worked its way through each member of our family until it was torn apart.  

Deciding to write, and actually writing, turned out to be two completely different tasks.  This would be a much different letter than the one to the ex-girlfriend, for which there was no writer's block.  This one- I spent months gathering thoughts, but never put any to paper.  I did not know where to start.

Then I received a phone call.

He has stage IV cancer, and only has weeks.

I knew writing would be futile.  I knew I needed him to see the letter, to read it, to hear my words.  I had not seen the man in six years and had been content with that arrangement, but suddenly I knew I had to go.  I knew that if I did not, I would regret it.  I knew I would regret him not hearing what I needed to say, nor giving him the opportunity to say what I needed to hear.

It’s not that foreign a concept to me- rushing to the hospital bedside of a man who’s long been written out of my life.  My grandfather, for lack of better words, abandoned the family when I was 12.  The following twenty years offered a few, largely unsubstantial, contacts.  Yet, when word came that he was dying, I left work and drove the two hours to make sure I got to say goodbye.  He was still, despite it all, “Grandpa”.  He died 30 minutes later.

No, driving five hours to see the man who was Daddy during those same twenty years was not so outlandish.  And unlike Grandpa, there could be words spoken by both sides.

I sat in the hospital parking lot for fifteen minutes, suddenly anxiety ridden and nervous.  I did not want to go in.  “You just drove five hours here, Melissa—you ARE going in.”  Once inside, I hesitated some more.  Eventually though, I gathered myself together enough to head up to his room.  Just as I turned the corner, my stepsister was there, leaving.  She might not know this, but she was my lifesaver at that moment-  and the icebreaker.

It was a short visit; 40 minutes tops.  After my sister left, I said what I needed to say.  I am not one to kick a person when they’re down.  I didn’t drive all the way up there to make a dying man feel worse than he already did.  I chose my words carefully- more carefully than I typically do.  And, I kept it together- something I’m not particularly known for, either.

My thoughts and feelings were understood, and acknowledged. 

As I was leaving, he thanked me for coming.  “You didn’t have to do that.  I appreciate it.”  I told him I did.   Then, for the first time in 22 years, he apologized.  Sincerely.  This time I believed him.  This time, which I knew would be the last time.  I left the room, and made it back to my car before completely falling apart.

It was a trip I had to make, and a trip I am thankful I had the opportunity to make.  Whatever “closure” means, whatever letting go will look like for me- I know it would not happen had I not gone to see him.