Prologue
I’m
torn from my sleep I can’t catch my breath; my screams muffled by my pillow; I
wipe the tears from eyes. The sweat has soaked through the sheets. “It was just
a dream”, I tell myself, “just a bad dream”. I can’t believe it. I’m 18 years old
and still having nightmares that have me screaming for my mommy. This is
getting old. This is the 3rd time this week. I seriously need to get
a grip. As I wipe the sweat and tears from my face something keeps nagging at me.
“It was just a dream, wasn’t it?” A little voice telling me it wasn’t just a
dream came to life in my head, I shake the thought away, “of course it was just
a dream”. I try to go back to sleep but I can’t, not until I’m sure. I slowly
crawl out of my bed open the door and make my way down the hall to their
bedroom. This seems familiar too, have I done this before? I repeat my mantra
over and over again, “it was just a dream, just a dream…” As I open the door a
rush of relief comes over me there’s my mom she’s asleep and there’s my… “Wait,
where is he?” “It was suppose to be a dream, why isn’t he here”? As I stumble
back to my room the memories of the last 18 years floods my mind like a tidal
wave destroying everything in its path, all the hope gone. I remember now, it
wasn’t just a dream. It’s real. This is my life. He’s gone, he’s gone and he’s
never coming back. All the pain, all of the heartache comes rushing back as
well. As I collapse on my bed I realize this isn’t the first time my sub
conscience has played this evil trick on me and it won’t be the last. I cringe
with that thought. When will it end? When will the pain finally go away? I’m
cold all of a sudden; as I crawl back under the covers I close my eyes and
begin to dream again.
Chapter 1
7 Years Later:
I still relive those days over and
over again in my dreams. Seven years later, and I can still see my father
laying dead in a hospice bed only half the man he used to be. A full white
beard, and because of steroids and dialysis he is bloated to the point he kind
of resembled Santa Claus. Only there was no joy in his eyes, only death. I
awake from these dreams crying, crying because they always end the same, he
dies and I can never tell him the truth. I continue to run away ashamed of who
he is, of who I am, my dreams mimicking reality. I’ve heard it said that dreams
are away your subconscious speaks to you about your deepest desires or about an
unresolved issue that you are struggling with. Dreams are a funny thing. You
can day dream, dream while you’re asleep, and worst of all, you can have
nightmares. For me my day dreams often have me longing for a life you only see
on television dreaming of a better life with a “normal” family where everything
works out just the way I want it to. I am different he is different. My dreams
during sleep are often so weird one could only guess at their meaning. But my
nightmares, whether during sleep or wide-awake my nightmares need no
translation they are always the same. There is that feeling of dread, of being
completely alone in a sea of people, of him lying there never knowing the
truth. I left him alone abandon him at his time of need and now I’m reaping
that which I have sowed.
******
I
loved and hated my father for most of my life, but I guess that’s normal for
fathers and daughters, that love-hate relationship. But we weren’t what most
would call you’re typical father daughter pair. I would love nothing more than
to sit here and tell you that I was daddy’s little girl, his princess, and his
angel. But then that would be a lie and this would then be a work of fiction. I
wish I could tell you that the good memories out weighed the bad, and maybe on
a good day that would be true. To sit here and say that my father was a saint would
be beyond the untruth it would be bordering on science fiction. But he was my
father and for that reason alone I loved him with all my heart. It was that
reason and that reason alone that I often tried and failed to write something
different to make our relationship be something it wasn’t. So for a brief
moment if only to be true to myself I will tell you about me, and my family,
but mostly my dad; a man that changed my life more in his death then he could
have ever thought of in life.
******
My dad was 44 when I was born; I was his fifth
and last child and his only daughter. His hopes and dreams for the legacy he
would leave behind rested on my shoulders. He figured having screwed up so badly
with my brothers, that I was his one last shot to do a good job. No pressure
though, right? I felt the weight of his fears with every lash of the belt and
every word he yelled. But being my father’s daughter I didn’t just sit down and
take it. I would yell back twice as loud as he would, see I was blessed with
two parents with very big mouths so mine was twice the size of theirs. Our
matches would often end with me screaming go to hell or I wish you were dead, or
I hate you! Words I wish now never left my mouth. But this defined our
relationship for many years. My mother often the referee trying to get us to
stop, say sorry, but me being the stubborn apple that fell from the preverbal stubborn
tree was not easily done, she often found herself on the receiving end of my
fits of rage, receiving the words of hatred that where aimed at my father but
she would step in between us, having them land like fist on her heart. She
would try to conceal her hurt but I saw it written all over her face; the fight
in her eyes holding back the tears. I knew when to stop with my mom I knew my
words affected her, my dad on the hand never flinched. When my words of hatred
rolled from my lips I could never tell if he heard them or if he went deaf when
I spoke. Maybe that’s why I felt the need to yell louder make him feel
something. Love or hate as long as he would acknowledge me. But often times he
just looked at me as if I was saying blah, blah, blah.
As
hard as my father was for me to understand my mother was the complete opposite.
I could read her like a book; she wore her emotions on her sleeves, this I
often used to my advantage. I knew if I wanted to end a fight without getting
in too much trouble all I had to do was threaten to run a way. This of course
was an empty threat but it turned my mother’s fear into a possibility. I knew
it would immediately turn her frustration away from me and on to my father. Her
fear was that I would leave that I wouldn’t want a relationship with my parents
that my father was going to push me so far away that she would lose me forever.
I can recall hearing them fight over this problem. And when it was over my
mother peaking her head in my room, “Twila, honey your father has something he
wants to tell you, when you feel like coming out, come to the living room, ok I
love you” As she would leave a smile would come across my face I was off the
hook, I had won! I know this is horrible but I was a kid, what do you expect.
It’s only now that I realize what my mom was really doing. She wanted us to
stop fighting so we could see each other, love each other, have that
relationship that we both craved but our hard heads would not allow this to
happen.
For
the most part I lived what most people saw as a fairly normal life. They saw
the fact that I had a mother and father who loved me, a roof over my head, and
nice clothes on my back, and said I was a lucky kid. And you know they are
right relatively speaking I did have it good. But to me my life was far from
normal, I would go as far as to say that there were times when I would even be
willing to trade lives with my brothers, at least they had each other. Dad got
to see them become men; he got to see their kids. They got a chance at
redemption, where as for me I sit longing to make things right but knowing that
I would never have that chance.
From
the time I could remember my father was always sick or always to tired to do
anything but watch the news or sports, and I would long for him to play with
me, take me to the park, or to pay attention to me some how. I myself would
spend hours in front of the TV alone in my room with the door shut and
sometimes even locked and being an only child of two older parents I was often
befriended by these virtual friends inside this little box. It was there that I
would see what I considered the model for truth. I would see these TV fathers
and their relationship with their children and I would ache for that
relationship; all the while missing opportune moments that I could have spent
with my dad. Had I had the insight then that I do now about the reality of the
television world maybe just maybe I would have spent more time with my Father
creating our own special moments.
As
bad as things were we did have our moments where things seemed right. My mind
still wonders with the cool smell of fall. My parents and I lived across the
river from a coffee factory and when the wind was right in the fall you could
almost taste the coffee on your lips. And when I was little we would open the
windows on cool days and let this wonderful air fill the house. On Sunday
afternoons I would sometimes go in the living room being tired of a one way
relationship with my virtual friends, I would come out and sit on the couch
pretending even for a moment to be interested in whatever it was that my dad
was watching on the TV. In the fall you can only guess what would be on then.
That’s right “Are you ready for some Football”. It was there where I tried to
learn the ends and outs of the game but it was there that I would more times
then not fall asleep listening to the announcers and my father yelling at the
top of his lungs trying to coach the team from the “home field” thinking that
if he yelled loud enough that the team may actually hear him.
I
know what you’re thinking how is that a great memory? I’d sleep and he’d yell,
but it was one of those things that are just sensory connected. When the
weather changes and Sunday comes around and a good wind comes by with the
coffee smell attached to it, it takes me back to a time when I wasn’t so
worried about what life would hold for me or my parents; a time when all I worried
about was, “wondering if in fact he yelled loud enough would the
players/coaches actually hear him?” I did however often wondered what my father
thought about those times together? Did he enjoy me there or was it just
another time that I bothered him? He would always seem agitated or not quite
sure what to say to me, like I was interrupting his man time. I know I wasn’t
the little girl him or my mother was expecting. I loved climbing in the trees
with the other boys in the neighborhood. I loved Nintendo and playing in the
dirt. My mom would have to fight me tooth and nail to put a dress on. Maybe
that’s why my father and I didn’t get along. He already had four boys, he
didn’t need a tomboy he wanted a little princess, and I was a far cry from
that.
Chapter 2
I remember the
first time I realized that my dad wasn’t Superman that my father wasn’t going
to live forever. It’s something one doesn’t easily forget, no matter how hard
you try. I was eight years old and in the third grade. On a soccer field surrounded
by a group of friends from church during a get to know you game the pastor
asked us all to share our dreams and aspirations. The kids went first and most
of the kids wanted to be movie stars, ball players. One boy wasn’t sure what he
wanted to do but he knew he would rock doing it. When it came around to me I
told the group I wanted to change the world. I wasn’t sure how or even really
why I wanted to, I just knew that’s what I wanted. The parents got a turn as
well I don’t remember their exact hopes and dreams but I would imagine they
were typical for parents and their hopes and dreams for their kids. I was quite
bored and really distracted by this time. I was never officially diagnosed but
I’m pretty sure I had/have A.D.D. easily distracted by the smallest things; a
butterfly flying by or a barking dog. But something drew me back. When my dad
started talking I was brought back to reality, as he spoke I remember seeing
something in my father that I had never seen before. There was fear and sorrow
written all over my dad’s face. As the words came out I understood why. He
said, “My dream is to walk Twila down the aisle and give her away at her
wedding. To be able to see her children.” I remember the circle was quiet for
what seemed like an eternity. As I looked at him I saw the tears beginning to
well up in his eyes he bit his lower lip to keep the tears from spilling over.
It was at that moment that I realized the likely hood of my father’s dream
coming true was slim to none. I firmly believe it was this moment that changed
my life; I no longer worried solely about childhood concerns. I was now faced
with real adult worries. Like what’s going to happen to him? Is it possible
that I could loose both my parents, and if so what would happen to me? It was because
of this revelation from my father that caused so much inner turmoil with in me.
A part of me wanted more than anything to make him proud do my best be the
young lady that he begged me to be. But another part of me just wanted to be a
kid. Not needing to worry about what it means because my dad is on having
second angioplasty operation. I wanted to be a kid but because of everything
that transpired after our time of sharing I was even more compelled to be a
little adult to take on the world. It’s funny how things work out my mom used
to say when I was an infant and toddler that I didn’t really look like a baby
that I looked like a little person. I often wonder if it was my dad’s illness
that caused our fights or if it was his illness that in the end brought us
closer together.
