Life without my Father

I always wondered how I would react to the news my birth father had passed away. I'm not sure if that is because I grew up around the funeral industry, because my father was a bit older than most other fathers I know or because we had such a roller coaster of a relationship. Any way you want to look at it, I really didn't think I'd have to face that reality at the age of 28.


The morning of Friday, November 18, 2011 is one I will never forget, no matter how hard I try. It was Corey's day off and we had stayed up late the night before watching TV or something, so we had planned on sleeping in. His cell phone rang around 7:20ish - it was his Sergeant who asked if we were home and said he needed to talk to him in private. We feared it was something about the job Corey was about to interview for or God Forbid; one of the other troopers had been killed the night before on duty. Corey went outside when he saw “Sarge” pull into the driveway.


I figured we were up for the day, so I decided to get the bath mat out of the dryer. I got it into the bathroom, stepped on it and realized it was still wet, so I hauled it back to the laundry room and started it tumbling again. I heard the door open and close and was surprised to see "Sarge" had come inside with Corey. My first thought was that Corey had lost his job, but the look on their faces said something was much worse than that. I looked at Corey - his eyes were a shade of sad I had never seen - "Oh no, did something happen to his parents? His sister and her family? Please, Dear God let our nephew be OK." It felt like an hour passed in the seconds it took Corey to say, "Merrick, your dad died last night."


I looked over to Jeff and back to Corey and swear to Buddha I asked the question, "Which one?" out loud, but I think my eyes must have just said it. I'm fairly sure it was Corey who said, "Rick." and that Jeff followed that with, "His fiancée found him on the bathroom floor this morning." That moment of realization hit fast and hard. I cried out for the only thing I knew could help or understand with the only words I could muster, "Oh, God! Oh, God!" Corey took me into his arms as my knees gave out. Eventually they moved me the few feet to the couch and Jeff let us know that if we needed anything, not to hesitate to ask, he again said how sorry he was, that he would be praying for us and he left. The rest of the day was a whirlwind. We talked to the Deputy who had been in charge of the scene, the funeral home who had his body, packed up the car and drove down to Portland to make the arrangements for the eye and tissue donation and cremation. We went to his house and got a few things of his that had been mine and the guitar my grandfather had given him over 40 years ago and spent the night with one of my best friends. We made the trip home the next day.


I wrote on his facebook wall in the wee small hours of that morning how much I missed him, how much I wished all of this was a nightmare and I'd wake up and could call him, but how selfish I knew that would be to rip him away from Jesus just as he'd heard the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant!" So, if he could, when I'm having bad days, just send a creepy bird through the sky to remind me that he's with me. (I think all birds are creepy, the bigger the bird, the creepier) We saw more hawks and falcons on that ride home than I'd ever seen in one road trip.


His service was two weeks later in what he had considered his hometown, where my grandmother and uncle live. I held the Kermit the Frog he had bungeed to his motorcycle through the whole thing. It was wonderful to get to meet so many people who he helped through his work as a Chemical Dependency Counselor and through AA. The stories of him throwing his back out doing the splits as a college cheerleader and organizing a benefit concert starring the Beach Boys were cool to hear, too. His urn is buried about 500 feet from my grandfather's in a beautiful cremation garden.


At first, I had a lot of guilt for not missing him more when he was alive. I could always pick up the phone and call him, text him, leave a message, email, something. When those options were gone, I started to kick myself. Corey gently reminded me that my father and I did the best we could - he didn't know how to be the kind of dad he really wanted to be, and I never knew how to be the kind of daughter I really wanted to be, but our relationship worked for us. The past year had shown that much for sure. 


I hear his voice sometimes. I notice songs he loved when they come on in a store or a restaurant. I've taken to playing "The Rainbow Connection" (which we played at his service) on my piano and I've gotten quite good at it. It helps, especially since his guitar is hanging on the wall right next to me when I play. It gets a little easier to live a "normal" life every day, but I still have breakdowns here and there. I suppose I always will, but have been assured by a cousin who lost her father almost 10 years ago that it does get better. A few of my friends have a hard time understanding why, after fighting with him for so long, I'm still so torn up about this. I think the fact is, no matter who your "dad" is, there is a bond with DNA that can't be broken. He was my father. Was he ever "Father of the year"? No. Did he make some really bad choices in his life? Yes. But, did he love me? Absolutely and with his whole heart. And I loved him the same.