This is dedicated to my brothers and sisters.
I was born January 9, 1972 in Ventura, California to a couple of hippies. My Dad was twenty and my Mom barely nineteen at the time. We lived in a small pink house in the Silver Strand Beach area. My sister Linette and my brother Paul were conceived a few years later. I only have a few memories of my Dad during the early years. My Mom tells me that he worked a couple of jobs and he often partied. They used to fight quite a bit, though thankfully, I don’t remember. My earliest memory is when my Dad took me to a party…
I remember looking up at the cutting board and seeing a cup placed upside down on top of it. As my Dad lifted me up, I could see a pin with a small chunk of something under the glass. One of my Dad’s friends lifted the glass and lit it. All the while, I could hear them laughing as the smoke filled the glass. “Suck in the smoke!” my Dad said, as his friend lifted the glass slightly. I sucked in the smoke and everyone burst into laughter. I can recall this memory of smoking hash quite clearly despite being three or four years old at the time.
Shortly thereafter, My Dad left my Mom with three children and went to live in Washington State to start a new life. Although I saw my Father off and on during my life, there were multi-year long stretches of time when we did not communicate. I would stay cordial with him but inside I really resented him because I could not understand why he left in the first place. I had to teach myself many things, often by trial and a whole lot of error. I grew up with hardly any discipline or direction and as a result, I had so much rage inside. My Mother tried her best but she was overwhelmed with so much responsibility.
There were a couple of times that I went to Washington to visit my Dad. He got married and raised his wife Julie’s baby, Joseph as his own and later they had my sister Danielle. With two kids plus a ton of work, I did not get much one on one time with him. Although everyone tried, we did not really fit together as a family and we often did not get along. I think too much time had passed and we had separate lives and families. Plus, my resentment was still in full effect.
Fast forward to around 1997*: My Dad got ill and was diagnosed with Primary Pulmonary Hypertension (PPH) which is equivalent to getting hit by lightning or winning a couple of million dollars at your state lottery. He went on a medication via pump that softened his bronchial arteries and prevented them from callusing and totally closing up. No fun at all. I got to see him and my sister Danielle two years in a row for my brother Paul’s wedding in August 2001 and my wedding in August 2002. He looked a little frail at both occasions but he was still fit enough to take care of himself.
Around July of 2006* my Dad called me to let me know that he could not take care of himself any longer. I offered for him to come stay with my wife and I. We drove up to Washington with a trailer to pick him up and haul some of his stuff back. When we arrived, I saw just how bad my Dad’s disease had wasted his health. He looked like he was eighty plus years old. He must have weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds. Mind you, he was only fifty-five at the time. Before the disease had struck, he weighed around one-eighty and he was in great physical condition. It was shocking to us! In addition, I found out that he had to take a ton of morphine and Oxycontin to combat the pain he experienced plus a whole cocktail of other drugs to subdue the side effects.
We stayed in California for a while and then we decided to move to Oklahoma with my Sister Linette and Brother-In-Law (He has family there) to escape the rat race of Southern California. We struggled at first but we eventually settled in. I started to learn some things about my Father. My Dad was a chef by trade and he started showing me various cooking methods. We had a great time cooking meals together and for the first time, I started to create good memories with him.
We eventually talked about why he left so long ago. He told me that he was addicted to heroin and other drugs. He had friends that overdosed and died and he did not want to end up like them. He was only twenty-five at the time and he was scared. I really looked at it from his perspective and I was able to understand and forgive him. I did tell him of my pain of not having a father to guide me through manhood and he gave me a heartfelt apology. It was great to finally bridge the thirty-year plus chasm in our relationship.
One day my Dad noticed a sore on his right shin and another on his left. He started putting hydrogen peroxide on his wounds thinking that would clean and heal them. Little did we know that this was a big mistake! His wounds got so bad to the point that it looked like someone took a blowtorch to his lower legs. We made the decision to go to the emergency room. I picked up my Dad and carried him to the car. I realized at that moment how frail and old he had become: how helpless. I couldn’t help but notice the irony: I was helping my Father get through the end of his life when he wasn’t really there for mine.
After his legs completely healed, my Dad finally told me that he was going to die soon. When the pain was really bad, he expressed the desire to overdose and get it over with but his relationship with God kept him from actually going through with it. I really marveled at how tough and strong my Dad really was. I don’t think I could have lasted as long as he did. In fact, he shattered the record for longevity with PPH at ten years.
On February 17th, 2007, I woke up in the morning to check on my Father. He was having trouble getting up and he told me it was time. I called an ambulance and my Sister Linette saw it pull up to our house. My Sister and I followed behind the ambulance until we arrived at St. Johns Hospital in Tulsa. After he was settled in, we sat by his side. He started to have trouble breathing because he was getting fluid build up in his heart and lungs. One of the doctors wanted to drain the fluid but my Dad wouldn’t let them. He didn’t want to prolong the suffering. He wanted it to end. My Sister and I held his hands and tried to comfort him by letting him know that we love him and that it would be over. I remember whispering peace to him, as his breathing got fainter and fainter. After a short time, I listened for a heartbeat but there was none. I ran out of the room to the nurse’s station bursting into tears. When he was pronounced dead, I turned off his miserable pump machine he had to wear for so many years. After ten years of pain, it was over and my Dad was able to rest.
Looking back at various points in my life, I realize that the Lord was always there working. As much as I tried to deny that He cared, He turned my tragedies into triumph, my hate into love, my guilt into grace. And sometimes the roles are reversed and the son becomes the father.
* Note: I may be off regarding the dates. Please forgive me.
