Daddy’s Little Girl

Just two weeks ago, I learned that my dad had passed away. It wasn’t what I expected to hear from Mom when I called her that Friday night.

“Your father has died.” 

Short, simple and to the point. I don’t think I said anything for almost a minute. Her words reverberated over and over in my mind. I held my breath that entire time.

“Oh,” I replied. I tried to hide the tremble in my voice, “When did you hear?”

 We hadn’t seen the man in just over 20 years. It’s a long, complicated story that I may go into some other time, but not now. The fact is, he wasn’t there. We’d heard that he had looked for us a few times, but the neighbors didn’t have our information. We found out by accident when we went back to visit the old neighborhood.

We only learned that he was alive and somewhere when out of the blue, Mom began to receive back child support checks from the State of California. It was quite random. She had long given up trying to collect. Those checks arrived on a monthly basis over the last 8 years. They were only $92 each – a tale of the times. Child support orders were very different 25 years ago.

This month, in lieu of a check, Mom received a notice that the payer was deceased.

I have bounced back and forth from the moment she told me. I feel so incredibly sad. I mourned the loss of my father years ago. I learned not to ache for him on a regular basis. The only times of weakness were usually while I witnessed a father/daughter dance at a wedding or Quinceañera, or perhaps while observing a moment of bonding between my girl friends and their dads.

I had never really considered tracking down my dad. In part out of a fear of what would lay within Pandora’s box, but also out of some quiet allegiance to Mom. She had never discouraged us – Kristi and I – from having a relationship with him, in fact, we rarely spoke about him at all. I learned the most about him when we would have an out-of-state visit from Mom’s best friend. She and her husband had been very good friends of my father and played a role in initiating their courtship. Almost forgetting that Kristi and I were around, they would spin tales about the old days. We would usually listen, intent on not interupting. Sometimes they spoke directly at us, but usually we were quiet, non-participants in the conversations.

 But now, learning that he is gone, I am imprisoned by doubts. I have never been able to ignore my wonders: wondering if he thought of us, wondering if he missed us, wondering if he had regretted the pain that he subjected us too – did he even recognize? Now these questions will never be answered. I will try not to obsess, but I know this is going to bug me forever.

I’ve done some preliminary information research. I believe that he was living in Seaside -hardly more than an hour away. Something about confirming that has driven a stake through my heart. He was so close. What I discovered next only multiplied my grief. He was cremated.

“NOOOOOOO!!!”

Not only was I denied his presence for 2/3’s of my life time, now I would be denied the opportunity to sit at his grave-site. The only thing I could think of when Mom broke the news was, “I will go to his grave, I will place my hand on the stone, and I will talk to my daddy.”

Dealing with death is one of the few things that binds us all as humans. It is different from culture to culture, family to family. Sometimes death is marked in black and other solemn colors. Sometimes it is a time to celebrate – to celebrate the life of he who has died, rather than to morn the loss of said being.

Death has been something I have quite a hard time accepting. Because of my family background, I really didn’t mourn the loss of a loved one until I was 22 years old. We have a pretty small family. Growing up, it was really just Mom, Kristi and I. All of the other family lived out of state. We talked a handful of times each year and only visited once every 3-6 years. We were not close to my grandparents, so at age 14, when Grandma died, I was sad -but I didn’t mourn. That came much later when I was old enough to really grasp how absent she was in my life, that she chose not to be there, and how sorry she was when she lay on her death bed and did all she could to leave me a final message.

Since that time, I’ve grieved over the passing of one other that I could say I had deep feelings for. I have of course known others who have died: co-workers, parents and relatives of friends, even a school mate I hadn’t seen since the 9th grade. I am always emotional when someone dies; I am very sensitive. But the first time that death really affected me was when a high school friend died of a brain tumor. She had suffered headaches for as long as I had known her. By the time that the tumor was found, it was too late. The cancer took her quickly. From what I understand, she suffered a great deal.

I had moved to Indiana to be with my mom while recovering from a personal crisis. I had only been there for a few weeks when I flew back to California for a two week period to perform “one last time” with the Aztlán Academy. It was then that I heard of Brenda being sick. I called her parents and spoke briefly with her father. She was dying and he nearly cried as I asked for permission to visit her. He told me it was not a good idea, she had had too many visitors over the weeks, it was time for her to rest.

Brenda died several days after I returned to Indiana. She was 23. I didn’t sleep through the night for the next 4 months.

I wasn’t sure how my dad’s death would affect me. I’m still not sure. No matter what, I wish I had given him one last hug. I wish I could have told him that I forgave him. I pray that he passed in peace. I pray that somehow he knew, his daughter loved him.

A part of me will always be Daddy’s little girl.