Father's Day has always been really hard for me. Growing up it was hard being my daddy's daughter. When I turned 5 my daddy was forced into early retirement through his company. After that he slipped into a deep, dark, depression that held him captive for many years. The only happy memories that I have of him are in picture before my 5th birthday. These pictures and the stories of my family are really the only evidence that I had that my father really loved me. When I turned 19 his depression snapped and went to the opposite extremes. Instead of being depressed, you couldn't shut the man up. Instead of only going to get gas for the lawn mower and a hair cut, he ran the streets of New Hope and surrounding counties from 3 a.m. till dark. We never knew where he was or what he was doing. He put my mother through hell while I was at college. After college I moved back in with my parents and the antics continued. Finally, his health started to really get him down and most of his annoyance came at home. Yelling at us, the cat, and just being weird. We ended up having to put him in a nursing home. Mom went everyday. I went when she laid the guilt trip on thick enough. By this time I was living in Georgia and my trips became less frequent.
October 31st, 2006 I got a phone call that daddy had aspirated soup into his lungs that were already infected with COPD. November 18th, 2006 I got a call to come home and help make decisions regarding his life.
I left that Tuesday morning from Georgia and made the trip back home to New Hope. I had talked to mom earlier and she told me that he was coming in and out. Talking a little bit, eating some but that she could tell something was happening. I walked into the room and went to one side of the bed and hugged my mother. My daddy woke up and called me Crissy. I went to the other side of his bed, held his hands as he told me he loved me. Those were his final words on this earth.
It's taken me 4 years to really process that moment. Those moments leading up to his death. The remaining moments counting breaths and watching something happen inside of that room that only my daddy and Jesus could see happening. In those moments, I hated him, loved him, forgave him, resented him. I stayed in the room night and day until finally I could smell death and myself. I went to take a shower and no more than 5 minutes after I left the room, my daddy left this world. I really don't think he wanted me there to have to see that. To have to see his spirit leave his body. My aunt Gertha who is now also gone was there with my mother that day. When I walked back into the room the sweet Asian nurse was singing Amazing Grace over my daddy.
He loved me. I know that now. Sometimes I mourn his life, other times I mourn what I never had in him. It wasn't his fault and I know that he did everything that he could to give me a great life.
I pray for the daddy that Brandon will be one day. I pray that our children are not robbed of a father physically or mentally. I pray that my children will not have to look at pictures to get the sense that their father loves them but know it at every turn that they make. I pray that through Brandon they will be able to see the Father's love for them.
I treasure the pictures and look forward to the future.
