The Christmas trees were being decorated. The holly twisted along the banisters of stairways. Children played in the snow, with great anticipation of what the magical morning of Christmas would bring. The aroma of hot cocoa was hauntingly present throughout the house.
The hustle of the days as they closed in on Christmas brought sleep early to me. Running about trying to get all the wonderful new ornaments, wrapping paper, and gifts in time. I lay down to rest my weary bones. A few hours later the phone rang. My husband reached over and picked up the receiver. On the other end was my sister in law Laura. She was crying. The phone was immediately handed to me. I sat up and turned on the light on the nightstand.
“I’m sorry to tell you, but your father is dead.” I couldn’t answer right away, as the words had to travel from my ear to my brain. I replied back to her, “my father is dead?” “Yes.” The first thought that ran through my mind was that he must have suffered a heart attack and they found him dead in his bed. He was a chain smoker, and was on heart meds, so it wasn’t far from what I expected, but certainly not at this age, he was just 54. I asked, “what happened?” She didn’t say anything, and I could hear voices in the background.
“He killed himself. Your brother and I were checking up on him, we opened the door and found him in the living room.” Well, my mind immediately went into denial mode! No way, I thought! Not my father! Why was she lying to me? I asked her what she was talking about. She began to cry and told me she couldn’t talk right now, that the police were there with my brother and they were taking the body out.
I hung up the phone. I was standing at the time, but just sank to the floor. I didn’t know what to do or what to think. Killed himself - the words kept running through my brain non stop. I had always viewed my father as such an intelligent man. Self made, hard working, hard playing. But certainly not suicidal.
The next morning I spoke to my baby brother who had found him. My father had taken a shot gun, loaded one bullet. He then put the shot gun between his knees, the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. He was sitting in his favorite chair, and his favorite radio station played in the background. He had drank nearly an entire bottle of vodka and left all his personal effects laid out on the dining room table. And yes, he left a note.
By the time I had arrived at his place, they had cut out the rug from beneath the chair he sat in, and had cleaned off the wall behind him as well. Of course the chair was gone.
I sat at the dining room table, where we had shared so many cups of his famous coffee and donuts. And read the two page note he left behind. My heart burst when the very first line read; “To Whom It May Concern” - To whom it may concern?! Is he kidding me?! I was furious! How could we not be concerned?! As I read on, nothing really stuck in my mind of the words he had written. It meant nothing to me at all. There was no real reason except that he claimed that he could no longer stand the mystery of what was waiting for us beyond our deaths.
Two weeks before Christmas, 1989, and today in 2006, I still cannot stand Christmas. I hate it. I hate the reminder of what heartache it has brought to me. The reminder of how he left me, yet again, the first time being when he left my mother. Only this time, there would be no time to catch up. This time is would be a permanent separation from him.
After the anger, I felt such sadness. Why wasn’t I worth sticking around for? Why didn’t he love me enough to stay with me? Why didn’t I see any sign of his desire to end his life? Guilt.
You would think after so many long years that it would have gotten easier. But it hasn’t. Its still two weeks before Christmas 1989, and I’ve just lost my father. Sometimes I dream about him, and we are having a conversation. Catching up on all that’s happened since he’s been gone. New grandbabies that have been born and have grown up. The loss of my other baby brother Teddy to leukemia. My mother’s death. The death of my father’s mother. So many things, events, historical moments that he has not been able to share.
Yes, life goes on even when we don’t want it to. I don’t mean we don’t want it to because we too are suicidal, I mean because we feel that the great pain we are feeling, everybody around us should be feeling as well. I can’t understand why everybody does not weep as I weep for the loss of this man’s life by his own hand. I feel the world should stop moving, stop working, stop laughing, because my heart is broken in five hundred tiny pieces. But it doesn’t. It carries on and carries us through it as well. And we have no choice but to carry on and look for a new day. A new sunrise and sunset.
We appreciate exactly how hard life is, and realize that we won’t find ourselves in the shoes he found himself in. That yes, there are many mysteries of this life and the life after. But they are mysteries that can wait for the right time, no need to rush them.
It may have been hard for him to endure what he did, enough to end it all when he did. But I must share with you, its even harder for those who are left behind to deal with the loss of one who has taken their life. When I see so many others who struggle, beg, endure whatever it takes, just to have a little bit more of this life; and then one who takes it all so lightly and for granted. It really does something to my very soul.
Do I forgive him? Yes. Do I still love him? Very much. He has taught me just how valuable life truly is. By taking his life, he gave me quite a perspective on my life. Joseph Theodore, my dad.
