Today marks eight years since my dad was called heavenward.
This day sucks. A lot. Although I guess that goes without
saying.
I considered writing him another letter, much like the one I
wrote two years ago. I’d cover things like how I listen to podcasts and it
reminds me of him listening to talk radio – I even add my own commentary like
he used to. I’d tell him how I saw one of his old coworkers after spin class
and immediately wanted to call him. I’d let him know that despite the fact that
there are still days where I am overwhelmed with unfathomable grief, I’m
choosing to not be a victim of my circumstances.
Instead today I choose to tell a story of the day my
relationship with my dad changed.
Let me start this by saying I was a terrible teenager. I
know this is hard to believe because I’m such a phenomenal human being now –
but just call up my mother. She’s got some horror stories. Topping that list is
most likely the story below (or possibly the time she found my emo thoughts
journal where I wrote about how much I hated her but I WAS AN ANGSTY TEENAGER
OK times have changed).
I was a freshman in high school in Minnesota and struggled
with self-mutilation and was having a particularly bad episode on the day this
story takes place. I don’t recall what the catalyst was, but I do remember
screaming at my mother that she doesn’t know what it feels like to wish you
didn’t exist (this is the part where I remind you how awesome and *mostly*
mentally stable I am today). This spurs some verbal sparring that ends with me
locking myself into my bathroom and carving the words “FUCK YOU” into my bicep.
Very proud moment for me, infinitely grateful that particular incision didn’t
scar.
Naturally my parents fear for my life – because they are
good parents who love me despite what you might read in my emo thoughts
journal. My mother calls the suicide hotline while my dad stays in my room.
At this point I’m given two options – my parents will either
call the police to come pick me up to take me to the hospital, or I can
willingly get in the car with my dad to be taken to the hospital. It’s safe to
assume that I got in the car with my dad to head to the hospital. I had my
rational moments.
The car ride to the emergency room was silent except the
occasional sound of my dad running his thumb along his knee. The silence
continues while we check into the ER and wait what felt like hours to be called
in to an evaluation room. As time passes the tension lessens between us and we
are finally called into a room to speak with someone about the reason we are
there.
Upon telling the gentleman the reason for our visit, he asks
to see the location of the most recent mutilation. I pull my shirt to show him
the eloquent phrase etched into my skin – to which he replies with one word. “Nice.”
He finishes his charting and we are taken to another room.
Here we are told we will be met by a doctor shortly. In the
hallway there’s a homeless man shouting about how “No white man popo gonna take
me down!” and it is at this point I realize maybe this isn’t the place I want
to be. Dad and I exchange glances and a chuckle when the doctor comes in to
chat with us.
After a short conversation about my history of self-mutilation,
what medication I’m on, and the frequency of these episodes he pulls my dad
into the hallway. When they return we are again presented with options – the psych
ward in the Minneapolis hospital we were at was full, but I could be taken at
the psych ward in Saint Cloud OR if I felt okay I could go home.
My dad turned to look at me, considered some things, then
returned his gaze to the doctor and said this:
“I think she’s going to be alright.”
We are given the go ahead to leave and in the car dad asks
me if I want to go through the Taco Bell drive thru. I ordered my first ever
Crunchwrap Supreme and we joke and laugh on the ride home.
It was this moment that gave me hope for my future. It was
this man that I am incredibly proud to call my dad. My dad instilled a faith in
myself that has brought endless encouragement since that day. I am so grateful for a father who stuck with me through the scary times.
Today I raise a chalice of the nectar of the gods (Mountain
Dew, obviously), chow down on some Chipotle, and watch Star Wars in his memory.
Love you, dad – to infinity, and beyond.
