The dogs were barking strangely one early morning in July of 1970; I was 15 years old. I knew someone had probably driven up our driveway and was taking their time to come to the door, which was driving the dogs nuts. I was up early to get ready to bring my dog to the county fair as a 4-H project and was eager for the day.  I went to the window and peered out to see who could be there this early in the morning. I then spied my Mom walking up with two neighbors close by her side, arms around her, covering her in an obvious shawl of compassion. They were whispering and weepy eyed.

My dad had died.

A few days prior, he had gone in to hospital for a relatively new operation for clogged arteries to the heart. At that time, it was then a very risky operation.  My father had complications following surgery and later died.

Our neighbors brought my mother home to support her in breaking the news to me and my sisters. My mother reached out to me and embracing each shoulder with her shaking hands she said, “You are the man of the family now, son; you need to take care of your sisters, and the farm. Your father has died.”

I hugged her without a tear, without fear and just said, “Okay, I love you, Mom.”

I never really did grieve or publicly lament my father’s passing.  I was the kid whose old man kicked the bucket over summer break. I was embarrassed by the quiet looks of consternation and so I became the clown, to laugh it off preemptively and avoid the glares. I put away the grief, the pain, and did not lament, or mourn, my loss.

It seemed almost too easy to pack away.  My mother soon remarried, then feeling somewhat abandoned, compounded with the strong feelings to stretch my own wings, I moved away from home.

Now years pass by, I get married and have a child, our first-born, our only son. Soon, we were blessed with the birth of his darling sister; life seemed again to be joyful and the fulfillment of a dream.

Then, the dark clouds returned with death of my son. Nothing could have ever prepared me for the depth of pain that one experiences in losing a child. Nothing!

The world stopped and everything I ever knew had now changed forever. I was lost in hopeless pain for many years. Father’s Day mocked my existence. Both my past and my future in fatal swoops were whisked away, and I was left here in the present alone in so much pain. Why me?

I lost my father, then my son. I felt so violated, so cheated, earmarked by God for misfortune; it felt like I was playing a role in some Thomas Hardy tragedy novel where I played the main character whose life was built on misfortune.

I soon cracked under its weight; it broke my spirit, and I felt hapless, hopeless, innocuous and miserable. I wanted to die.  I had my daughter to care for and a wife who spoons my soul, but I had no zest for life, no passion, no feeling, no goal.  I struggled hard to free myself from the web of self pity, and I dug deep into my inner soul; from attic to basement, I looked within myself to find a way out.

In my head with angels’ help, I went back to the day my father died. I literally went back and relived the moment. I screamed and I cried. I finally lamented for my father and let out the buried angst hidden for so long.  When that dam burst, I could then make room for the lamenting of my son.  Only then did my road to acceptance begin.  Acceptance is not selling out, or letting go of their love; it is just accepting that they are dead and giving ourselves permission to rebuild our lives the best that we can.

I finally grieved for my father and I am still grieving for my son. Accepting their death is not the end of the bereavement journey; it’s only the beginning.  We shall continue to grieve for associated losses from their deaths the rest of our life.  Father and son banquets, hunting trips with the boys, working on cars together, sharing a beer or two, having a pair of strong shoulders to hug, so many potential moments that we shall grieve forever. No grandchildren, or great grandchildren, no retirement party, birthday parties or graduation celebration, no parties of any sort.  We are always reminded that their lives were cut short, and we grieve anew for what should have been.

Through the loss of my son, and other family members, I have learned much on the journey.  I found that I love deeper, I smell flowers longer, and I savor the sunsets more.  I feel the best when helping others, and I thank God for my every breath.  These are all good things to have come to me in the midst and aftermath of horrific pain. How sad it would be if we were not compensated in some way for our tragic loss, for life would then truly seem meaningless would it not?

Through the loss of my father and my son, I discovered the randomness of death. Death can hit anyone, anytime, regardless of genes, the environment, or the best of efforts to stave off the sting of its reality. There is nothing we can do that can adequately prepare us for a loss of our loved one.

Do I feel sad on Father’s day?  You bet I do.  Do I celebrate it?  Yes I do. I am proud to have been my father’s son for 15 years and proud to have been a father to my son for 9 years. I am proud to be a father for my surviving daughter for 26 years. I am proud to be a grandfather.

Everyday is Father’s Day when you find yourself surrounded in love from this world and from the next.

Feel the sadness of your Father’s day; feel the pain, feel, the joy, feel the love that alone makes it possible to feel the pain.

Tags: Depression, grief, hope, Multiple Deaths