What made you choose psychology as a major? My mom asked me one evening shortly after I had graduated college. It was at that moment that I first learned that my father had been schizophrenic. A few days later, she pulled my father's diagnostic paperwork out of the safe to show me. As I reviewed the sloppy writing of the psychiatrist, I tried to recall any event from my early life that showed indication of my father's illness. Not a single one registered, and I spent a great deal of time with him. Misdiagnosis? I'll never know...
During my early years, I have no memories of my mother. My time was filled bar hopping (I drank coke and my dad had a beer or two), singing, and visiting with friends of my father. He was my hero, spoiled me rotten, was incredibly smart, and of course was my father. I remember his fingers being stained yellow from the Winston's he smoked regularly. I remember his shyness around the camera. I remember his infectious laugh, and his unending stubbornness. Looking back, it is no surpirse that he waited far too long to see a doctor about a major blockage in a leg vein. When finally cooerced by my mother to go in for open heart surgery, he suffered a major stroke rendering him paralyzed on his right side.
After recovering medically, he had to undergo rehabilitation to relearn to walk and talk and swallow. I remember my first visit to see him as if it were yesterday. It was around Christmas, and carols were playing on the radio. Snow hit the windshield as we drove 30 miles in silence to see my father. I had no idea what to expect. I was nine.
We arrived to the hospital; staff told us he was eating dinner. I remember the look on his face and how excited he was to see me for the first time. I was his "schnookums". But I was afraid; who was this man? MY father couldn't be less than, paralyzed, reduced to spoon feedings, bed changings, and reminders to bathe. I hid behind my mother. At the time I hated him. I hated him for abandoning me, leaving me with my mother, taking away all the good times we used to share. It must have broken his heart to be rejected by his little girl like that, and it pains me to this day as I picture the look of rejection on his face that day in December 1990.
After his rehabilitation, he was never the same. We were never the same. His pride and stubbornness would not allow him to go back to his own machine business because he was not capable of doing the things he used to do. He spent much of his time depressed, trying to capture his old life, trying to be the man he used to be. His last words to me were...let's go for a ride, to which I replied, maybe tomorrow. That was the last time I saw him. the next day my half brother found him a few miles up our road, he had shot himself in the head. I was 13. I was devastated. I became numb.
If I could write him a letter, it might go something like this.
Dear Dad,
I miss you. Everytime I go to a wedding, I cry. Not because the bride is beautiful, or the couple is extremely happy, but because it is a reminder that you won't be there to walk me down the aisle, or dance with me at the reception.
I often wonder what my life would be like with you still around. I know I wouldn't have done many of the things I've done, and chosen the paths that I have if you were still alive. And, I often feel guilt in regards to that as well. Because I like my life, and I wouldn't have been able to experience the things I have if you were still alive. And at the same time, I feel cheated that you aren't still in my life.
At this point, I've spent more years of my life without you in it, that with you. Days, and weeks will go by without a single thought of you. I never really got to know you as a man, only through the eyes of a child . What would you think about my decisions? What advice would you give me? I don't have a clue how to answer these questions.
I'm sorry for how I must have made you feel that first night I visited. I'm sorry for not understanding that what happened was out of your control. I'm sorry for the way my friends asked if you were retarded "or something". I'm sorry for not going for a ride with you that last evening.
I miss you in my life, and at times wish you were still here, and at others am glad you aren't. I'll never have the chance to view you through adult eyes, and make my own conclusions about you. I hope you haven't turned over in your grave too many times, and that I am leading a life that you'd be mostly proud of.
Love,
Schnookums
