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LIFE AFTER DEATH:
A TRUE STORY...
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Written by Remay...
PART 1 In His Way, He Said Goodbye
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LINKS TO ME
OTHER STORIES
BOOKS
PART II of this story
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My father and I had been estranged since I decided to keep my unborn child, who was conceived out of wedlock. I didn't condemn him for his beliefs, although in my opinion they were limiting, but he had a difficult time loving me unconditionally because of my choices. Over the years, I had made a few attempts to get him to see my point of view, to no avail. His point of view never wavered: "Give your son up for adoption. It's either him or me."
One early evening in May, just three months before my son's eighth birthday, I received a call from my father. I was totally surprised: How did he know how to reach me in Detroit? After all, our phone number was unlisted. Did he know about my family, and was he calling to chastise me for my choices? Why was he calling me? I had finally gotten to a point in my life where his absence was of no consequence. I no longer needed his approval or love, but here he was on the phone: "Hi, Daddy! Your call caught me by surprise. I would never have guessed it was you on the other side of the phone line if someone had asked me to guess. How are you?"
"For the first time in my life, I'm happy," he said. "I never would have believed it if anyone would have told me I would, one day, be happy, but I am. You know how long I suffered with arthritis?"
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"Yes, I remember how it use to flare-up and make you miserable. What about it?" I asked. My father went on to tell me how it had been quite sometime since he had suffered with arthritis, and how much healthier he had been feeling, lately. He finally had a woman in his life who made him happy. His life was different, improved.
"Well Dad, why are you calling me? I thought you didn't want to have anything to do with me?"
"I just wanted to see how you were doing, and to say hello—to let you know I'm doing better than okay. Is it okay for me to call you?"
"Of course it's okay for you to call me. I'm just surprised. After all, I haven't heard from you in years. And if memory serves me right, you didn't want to hear from me."
I can't remember much more about our conversation, but I do remember how I felt after I got off the phone. It was likened to a brand new day dawning. My life seemed better, and mankind must have taken a leap to meet its philosophies. After all, my father called me while I was living with a man to whom I wasn’t married. There had to have been a shift in mass consciousness for my father to have reached out to me. What else could explain his out-of-the-norm behavior?
Although I had no answers, somehow, I felt elevated. I continued to live my life feeling a little less burdened, a little less different, a little less separated.
Having been consumed with the responsibility of providing for a family and working on my relationship with my boyfriend, I had gotten away from my passion, creating works of art with indian ink. It had been at least two years since I had a creative urge. In November of the same year my father had called me, I suddenly felt this burst of creativity. Since I no longer had ink supplies, I started my drawing with a pencil and completed it with a black magic marker. I had no idea what I was creating or why I was creating it. I just gave myself to the creative process and let the form on the paper unfold. I was only the vehicle it needed to materialize.
The un-saddened, teary-eyed, mystical, magical woman of the universe was completed a week before Thanksgiving. The creative urge satisfied, I turned my attention to the up-and-coming family dinner.
On Thanksgiving Day while dinner was still cooking, my mind wandered to thoughts of my father. It was traditional for him to drive to Philadelphia to spend Thanksgiving with my grandmother, who lived with his sister and her family. I remembered his call in May, and I thought it would be a nice surprise—my way of reaching back to him—if I called to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving.
With anticipation I dialed the number, my aunt answered, and I said, "Hi, Tia. Happy Thanksgiving!"
My aunt returned with, "This is no happy occasion: your father died on Monday."
I was blown away. My first thought was that he had been in a car accident in route to Philadelphia. I asked, "Was he in an accident?"
"No," my aunt responded, "He died from lung cancer."
"What?" I said in disbelief. "Why didn't anyone tell me? Why didn't you call me to let me know what was happening? I don't understand! How could my father be dying from cancer, and no one called me to let me know? How come nobody gave me the chance to say goodbye, to make things right with him before he was gone?"
"He didn't want us to call you, Remay. He didn't want you to worry about him," she said.
I was hurt: "What difference does that make, he's the one who was preparing to leave us, but me, I've got to stay here and live with the fact that we never got to say goodbye when there was one last opportunity. What about me? Don't I have any rights, after all, I'm his daughter."
"I think he wanted to protect you. We weren't sure what to do, so we honored his request."
"Protect me! Didn't he know. . . Don't you know you can't protect me. Don't you know protecting someone else is just a myth. The person being protected almost always gets hurt more than if they were told the truth from the beginning."
Oh, it was pointless trying to make any sense of it all—spilt milk, so to speak. I made arrangements to fly to Philadelphia in order to attend the funeral. At least I would get a chance to see my father for the last time and to say goodbye to his spirit.
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When I arrived at the airport, my cousin picked me up and drove me to my aunt's home. We had a few hours before the viewing of my father's body, so I asked all the questions that came to my mind about my father's experience with cancer.
I learned that in June, a month after he called me, he was attacked by a tumor on his brain. I found it to be very interesting that he called just a month before, and yet something inside me still doesn't believe it's true.
I suspect my father called me after he recovered from his brain tumor operation, not before he had the attack. Perhaps, it was his way of saying he was sorry for holding my choices against me; his way of saying goodbye. Perhaps, it is wishful thinking on my part.
When we arrived at the funeral home for the viewing of the body, my grandmother put her arm around my waist, and she told me how sad she was because she was unable to grieve the death of my father. She loved my father more than life itself, and, inside, she was hurting, but she couldn't cry. She didn't know why she couldn't cry, and it was taking its toll on her. She was confused, and she felt guilty about not being able to cry for her beloved son.
I had no concrete advice for her because I had never known anyone who had a problem not being able to cry. My best advice to her was that the tears would come in time. She just needed to be patient and to let nature take its course. But most of all, she shouldn't feel ashamed because what was happening to her was beyond her control, and besides, we knew how much she loved her son.
The next day, we attended the church service. To tell the truth, I have almost no recollection of what occurred during the service. It was suppose to be the final send off for the dearly departed—the calling upon God to carry the soul, peacefully, into His care. In that spirit, I spent most of my time during the service communicating to my father: "Daddy, why didn't you give me the opportunity to say goodbye? It's not fair. You know it's not fair to me. We could have had the time to reconcile, Dad. You could have forgiven me for disappointing you. You could have given me the chance to forgive you for not being there for me when I needed you the most. Now, our chance is gone. Lost forever. Why, Daddy? Why? Why. . .didn't you love me?"
I was totally absorbed in my thoughts, tears flowing down my face, oblivious to the church service in progress and everyone around me. As I sat there with my eyes closed, silently asking my father these questions, in the mirror of darkness behind my eyelids there flashed the picture of the mystical, magical woman I had completed drawing a week earlier. Startled, I opened my eyes: "Where did that come from?" I closed my eyes in an attempt to see the drawing again. Maybe if I looked more closely at the picture, I would understand. Instead I heard, "I did reconcile with you, Remay. The drawing is my way of saying peace be with you—my way of saying goodbye. I sent that picture through you."
I couldn't get the picture out of my mind. I couldn't wait to tell my grandmother what happened. Before talking to my grandmother, I had the opportunity to talk with my father's former girlfriend, Barbara. I confided in her that I felt silly about not forcing myself on my father—fighting for a relationship with him. It was a new feeling for me. Barbara, then, shared my father's feelings with me: "You may not know this, but your father was very proud of you. He loved you very much, and he only had good things to say about you. He bragged about your school grades, about your writing and artistic talents, but most of all, he was proud of the way you have managed to pull your life together. Yes, he was very proud of his little girl."
"Thank you for telling me this, Barbara. I never would have guessed."
I felt relieved. There really was no reason to dwell on the fact that I missed the opportunity to see my father before his passing, for he had communicated with me in a very special way. He did forgive me, and he did love me! CONTINUE HERE
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LINKS TO ME
OTHER STORIES
BOOKS
PART II of this story
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Continue to Part II... Link here!
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If you would like to
contact me regarding my hometown pages, sign my Guest Book on the List Page of
"Remay's Poetry Corner" or on my Profile Page. Thank you.
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