Hey, you. Did I ever tell you that I have a trauma response to late night phone calls? In fact I believe nothing good comes from them. I’ve never received a drunken call or a wrong number during those strange hours. No, for me, when I hear that deafening sound cry out in a pitch black room during the wee hours, it can only mean one thing….someone died. That is exactly what happened a week ago today.
I startled when I heard my husband’s phone ring. I tapped my phone hoping to see I had missed some silly text or call from my daughter. She too has an insect phobia and is not above sending out an SOS if there is a spider nearby that she needs help with stat. If I don’t answer, she tries dad. I wanted it to be that simple. I said silently to myself what Peter said out loud when he finally came to, “This can’t be good.” The call was from the nursing facility our father was in. I checked out for a moment when he first answered the call. I noticed my heart was racing, my adrenaline pumping and I felt sick to my stomach. My body was reliving an all too familiar feeling of something you never really get used to. I heard the tone in his voice shift and I knew. His father, (my bonus dad) was gone.
I can’t say we didn’t expect it to happen, we just didn’t expect it to happen that soon. That’s the thing with mosts deaths though, aren’t they always too soon? To be honest, there was a part of me that thought maybe he would outlive us all, only his dementia acted like it had something to prove. Perhaps all dementia is that way. It is quite the masterful thief. First, you lose someone and then you lose them again, permanently.
The first time I met my bonus dad, John, was New Year’s Eve 2015. He and my bonus mother, Susan, were hosting a party that Peter invited me to. My late husband, Brad, had been gone for 5 months by then. I wasn’t exactly in a “party” mood but I went for two reasons: 1). There would be another widow there. She was one of John and Susan’s best friends. 2). Besides Peter, no one there would know me or Brad. There would be no one there to trigger me into a heartbreak spiral. I could just be a quiet observer. I could instantly see how close these individuals were to each other. I remember thinking that I hoped my friends and I stayed connected like these lovely people. They were so engaging and John and Susan were so charming and warm. John had a way of smiling at you that made you feel important. Who knew I would become his daughter-in-law two years later.
In the nine years I knew him, I learned nothing about who he was. Oh, I heard stories from Peter and other people, but never from him. He was reserved and yet never stand-offish. I’m sure his military experience and career in law added to his stoic demeanor but he had the sweetest heart. He was revered amongst friends and colleagues, was recognized as an amazing lawyer many times nationally, and humble until the day he died.
I will never forget his kindness and generous personality or the deep conversations we had after Susan died. It’s truly the only time I ever saw him get emotional. I will treasure those talks forever, not because he was vulnerable with me but because he felt safe to do so in front of me. It was more than a widower and an a widow shooting the shit about grief. We got the chance to be honest with each other (side note: It really irritates me that we need to define spousal loss by gender. Is it really that confusing otherwise? Why is it necessary to differentiate between male or female when someone loses a spouse? I feel like one word can get the job done. Like the word “parent” for example. We get it). There are tender things etched in my memories. The day of Susan’s funeral, my daughter expressed wanting to wear a bow tie, so “Grandpa John” grabbed one of his and tied it for her. The day he held his newborn grandson. The day he got remarried. You could see the pure joy in his face. He would often say to me, “We are both lucky. Lucky in love twice.”
Dad was right. We were lucky in love. Unfortunately he was not lucky enough to hold onto it because at some point, for him, that love never existed. It became nothing more than a fleeting thought and then it became nothing. The saddest part of all, Dad kept his illness from us until he could no longer hide it, which robbed us of the opportunity to fully prepare. He was diagnosed during the years Susan was sick and I wonder if he didn’t want to detract from that. It doesn’t really matter because only Dad knows why he chose not to tell anyone. As you can imagine, his decision to hold on to it has caused so much turmoil. The time he had with his new beloved felt more like mere moments to her rather than years. This will undoubtedly impact our family forever.
The last time I saw John, he didn’t remember me and he didn’t remember Peter, but if you could have seen his eyes when he saw our children. His brain didn’t know them but his soul did. Throughout his decline, Dad never got angry or scared. That generous and kind nature was still in there somewhere. So, I can forgive Dad because I think his intentions were pure. Yes, he made a mess of things, but haven’t we all at some point in our lives? Regardless, it can never change the fact that, as Peter so sweetly put it, he was a titan of a man.
**Everything I write comes from my personal insights and has all the drippings of my opinions, biases, and what-nots. Rather than come for me with facts or judgements to contradict my said opinions, biases and what-nots, I’d rather you find a different blog that makes you happy. If you find these posts therapeutic or helpful in anyway that means we connected and it’s all I can ask for, however I’m not a therapist nor a coach. I’m just a writer floating words out there hoping they find the person they are intended for.
Thank you, Angel. This was beautiful.