On April 5th, my dad died. I had a therapy appointment at 2:00 pm, but my therapist cancelled. I was disappointed, but by 3:00 pm, right after I put my daughter down for a nap, someone started beating on my door. It was my mom and someone else, who I didn't immediately recognize. I called the police, but she left before the police got here. I called my husband to tell him that he needs to come home. My mom came back, I called the police again, and everyone got there within a minute of each other. After they chatted outside, the police officer came and told me that my dad died.
We didn't believe him. I told him to tell my mom that I don't want any contact with her ever again. He told her, she left, and we went outside to speak to him again. I asked him how I could confirm that my dad actually died, because I didn't believe my mom. Given her history with compulsive lying, how could I believe her? He suggested calling the police department in their county and asking for a wellness check on my dad, which we ended up doing after he left. And the wellness check confirmed that my dad did, indeed, die. My mom told the officer that he died of a stroke in the morning.
Since that day, I've still never really cried about it. I've tried to force myself. This was in the middle of Lent, and my husband would often be gone in the evenings at church while I stayed home with our daughter. I would be at home trying my hardest to force tears out - that's what a normal person is supposed to do when a parent dies, after all. One of my first thoughts after finding out was, "he was a terrible person but he was still my dad". For a minute, I felt like he "didn't have enough time to get better" - then, I realized, he'd been married for over 30 years and a father for 26 years. That's plenty of time to have simply chosen to be a better person.
I pray that he doesn't go to hell, that God sees him as a person who was so deeply flawed and traumatized by his early childhood that perhaps he didn't have as much control over his actions as he would have liked - although I don't really believe that, myself. Maybe I'm unnecessarily harsh. Who knows. I am deeply sad that there will never be a magical family reconciliation, where my parents realize how they've wronged me, apologize, and make amends. Sometimes, I think back to the few pleasant memories we had together and feel melancholic. But I'm far enough in my healing journey to know that just because there were a few good times, doesn't mean he wasn't a terrible father and overall terrible human being.
I don't regret being No Contact at all. I remember watching a YouTube video where an estranged mother was begging all estranged children to reconsider their actions, and telling us that we'd regret them once our parents died - nope. One of my other first thoughts after finding out that he died was, "at least he can never hurt me or my daughter again". I felt safe. I felt relieved. I was glad I didn't have to worry about him showing up and hurting me or my family, like he'd threatened to do plenty of times before. I was glad that even if my husband and I died tomorrow, our daughter would never be in his "care". The positive feelings certainly outweighed the negative ones.
I wondered what to do next - do I contact my mom? For a while, I considered it. Poor thing had just become a widow and had to watch someone die of a stroke. Surely, that's traumatic. And I felt terrible for her. Over the weeks, she repeatedly showed that she hadn't changed at all. I messaged my dad's sister (note how I don't call her my aunt) to tell her that her brother died, because I wasn't sure that my mom was in touch with them. My dad's sister told me that she knew, and that my mom reached out, but that my mom needs my support more than anything else right now - ah, a flying monkey. I was expected, yet again, to put aside my well-being and be her savior. She hasn't realized that this was one of the major reasons why I had to end our relationship, so I didn't bother contacting her.
Next, she used my phone number to check into an Urgent Care. The Urgent Care sent me a notification intended for her, she did this to circumvent being told by the police to not contact me again. If you recall her previous "heart attacks" and "post-COVID disorder" nonsense, she doesn't quite grasp that an Urgent Care is just not as big of a deal as the emergency room. She thinks it sounds just as serious, and she clearly hasn't picked up on the fact that I stopped buying her fake medical emergencies months ago. One of my friends said "she's willing to do anything to get your attention, except for apologizing for her actions and making amends" - he was about right. I ignored it.
Eventually, she gave me a call. I was in the car with my husband and daughter, and I obviously didn't answer. She left a very cryptic and mysterious voicemail - something about "please call me so I can discuss something with you that affects your future as well". I talked about it with my husband, who usually grounds me when I'm about to fall for one of her manipulative tricks, and we came to the conclusion that it's another attention grab. There couldn't possibly be any business that her and I have left to take care of - I really mentally went through everything it could possibly be, and couldn't come up with anything. Besides, wouldn't a normal person just say what it is in the voicemail? Ignored. I recorded the voicemail and considered a restraining order... I still might, but she hasn't made any attempts since.
Because the way that this all went down, and how traumatic it all was, I still didn't really believe that my dad was dead. I ended up ordering a death certificate. The first time, my request was rejected - "aha, he's not really dead, my mom made it up!". My husband and my therapist both reminded me that the government takes it's time with these things. I tried again a few weeks later, and it was approved. I got it in the mail, and I studied it for hours before shoving it in my drawer. I was amazed at the cause of death, which was medical non-compliance (still trying to figure that one out), which lead to uncontrolled hypertension, which lead to intracranial hemorrhage, which ultimately lead to cardiac arrest. It certainly made me want to live a healthier life, so I don't end up like that.
I think that was one of the only times I shed a tear about his death, although I didn't really cry. It was real. I had the evidence. I sat on the deck and thought about some of the information on the certificate. We live in a city between the city my parents lived in and the city my dad was cremated in - I imagined his dead body in the back of a car going down the highway near our house, and it made me choke up. I imagined my mom, the "informant" on the certificate, helping the EMTs fill it out in her broken English, minutes after watching her husband die. I thought about calling the funeral home for more information, although I doubt my dad actually had a funeral. No obituary, no funeral - no one really loved him enough to put these basic things together for him. I got sad thinking about how his own mother abused him so severely that he turned into a person who genuinely spent his entire life utterly unloved. At some point, this "unlovableness" was of his own creation, but it was a pathetically sad existence either way.
Anyway, I've had lots of dreams about my dad. It seems like almost every night that I have a dream that he's not really dead. I won't go into what spiritual significance I admittedly try to project onto them (this is dangerous territory in my faith and I try my best to just view them as dreams), but the dreams are almost always the same. Usually, I'm at their house, he shows up, and I wonder why he isn't dead. I thought I'd stop having these dreams when I saw the evidence of his death, but I just had another one last night. They tend to take place in the dining area of their townhouse, where I'd sit and do homework often. I might ask my therapist if this means anything. I'd like to stop having these dreams, they're honestly a bit disturbing and they make me far too emotional.
It's weird to think about the fact that the townhouse I lived in from ages 17 to 25 is never going to be the same again. I accidentally found out that my mom has a roommate now because the landlord called me, because I forgot to take my phone number off of the lease - so it's not really "her" place anymore. I could never just come back and be with my family - as abusive as they are, and as much as I wouldn't want to anyway. The good times live in a world of nostalgia in my head, somewhere I can never go back to, and I'm glad the bad times are in the past. In a sense, I feel like this is when I became a "real adult". I don't have parents to come back to anymore - I'm sure some amount of begging would have done the trick before my dad died, although I'd rather starve than do that. We went from "No Contact" to "one of them is dead, the other has been told by the police to leave you alone". The separation is totally permanent now.
I do wish it all happened differently. I always tried to be the voice of reason - my dad was an alcoholic, a heavy smoker, and ate terribly. I wasn't exactly shocked to find out that a stroke followed by a heart attack at the age of 50 is what killed him. I'm more shocked by the fact that my mom thought everything would work out in her favor if she threw her flesh and blood under the bus in favor of a man who was almost destined for an early death, because he would "provide" for her. In a way, I think she's eating the consequences of that decision now, and it helps me to not feel so bad for her.
Grieving is a linear, predictable process when a death happens in a healthy family. I used to have this fantasy of my dad dying in a hospital bed, and me bringing him a porn magazine and vodka. When he'd die, I'd pop a bottle of champagne and loudly declare that a disgusting, alcoholic molester died. Then when I got his ashes, I'd flush them down the toilet of a gay bar. Now that it's actually happened, as much as it didn't change how rotten he was, I would probably try to give his ashes a proper burial.
I miss my mom too. I miss her voice, her jokes, her stories, her cooking, and the fun times I had with her. I wish that she would realize what she's done and make amends. Right now, I'm trying to accept the fact that I very likely will probably not speak to her again, because the chance of her realizing what she's done is slim to none, especially after my dad died. I might not even find out when she dies, when that day comes. I actually don't even know if it's already come. Who knows?
I love them both. I don't know how I can love them, but I do. It's a biological drive. I loved my dad, despite everything you read on this blog. He was a monster and an abuser but my body was grown inside of my mom's body from a placenta that was entirely his DNA - from the moment of my conception, I was destined to love him (and her). You recognize and love your parents from the moment you develop senses in utero. I love my mom, despite everything she allowed to happen. My daughter feels the same biological drive towards me - I hope that by distancing myself from the people who spent my entire childhood tearing me down, her love for me will always feel right and make sense to her.
I hope my dad doesn't go to hell. I will probably be the last generation to pray for him, and God knows he needs it, unless I can convince my daughter to pray for her grandfather who died when she was 6 months old. Funny enough, my dad's dad also died when I was 6 months old. Sometimes, I feel like my little family is God giving a little girl just like myself a second shot at "doing it right", like my daughter's existence is a chance to make amends for what was done to me. I pray that this poison ends with me.
If I could speak to him, I would say: "Goodbye, dad. I love you. You loved me as best as you knew how, in your broken brain, not capable of very much love at all. At least not love the way healthy people recognize it. Perhaps, I'll get around to writing you a proper obituary - no, not the angry one I wanted to write weeks ago, where I exposed you for what you were, with your real name and picture attached. Despite everything you've ever done to wrong me and others, I'm sorry that you were never properly loved.". And this comes after many weeks of processing really nasty, angry, yet still justified thoughts.
(I apologize for not updating this blog in months - I haven't forgotten about it, and there are many posts I'd like to make, but my daughter takes up much of my time, which I'm glad for. I love her very much and I'm glad to see her becoming more mobile, eating more foods, and learning new things. I have a little bit of computer time after she goes to bed, and as her schedule has finally become more consistent, I'll probably be writing more posts!)