I think that everyone has a special story, or some kind of pivotal life changing moment. Perhaps some people know what their story is, or maybe they are still waiting for their story to unfold. Some can be happy or sad, good or bad.
My story can be all four. Happy, sad, good, and bad. It really depends on your perspective.
Rarely you will find me talking about it because it is so personal. It was difficult for me to write, but it is straight from my heart.
Here is my story:
It was one of those warm and breezy summer days. I played some badminton, did my chores, went grocery shopping with my mom. Typical day, but something felt wrong. My older brother and sister were visiting from college and my dad was out of town. He was in Redmond, our previous city of residence, repairing our old home so it could be put up for sale. The day was coming to a close, but something still wasn’t right. I remember laying in bed reading my favorite book and listening to “I Feel Fine” by The Beatles. That’s when my mom walked in. She was struggling to keep calm when she told me something happened to my dad. I was instructed to pack some clothes and get ready for the next ferry heading to Seattle.
Clothes...toothbrush...shoes. I was struggling to think straight. I had no idea what was going on. My brother was on the phone, and I could hear my mom’s smothered cries. Words like “hospital” and “ambulance” echoed from down the hall. I went outside, away from the inhospitable words, to apprehend what was happening. I began to pray with all my heart that my dad would be okay. Minutes later, my brother came outside and sat me down on the hot tub cover. With yearning for good news, I received just the opposite. My brother said five words I will never forget: “Rachel, dad has passed away.” Screams. Tears. Agony.
My mom came outside too. I was the first my brother told and my mom didn’t know yet. Once the words were said again, there was no stoping it. More screams. More tears. The pain was insufferable until a blanket of numbness sunk upon us.
An hour earlier, my mom had called a family friend that lived in Redmond to check on my dad, because she had not heard from him all day. Our friend was the one that found him upstairs on the bed in our old house. There was nothing the paramedics could have done. My dad had been cold for hours.
I will never forget that night. I was just fifteen, and I had so many more experiences to share with my dad, but that future with him was over. My first prom date, graduation, my wedding. Gone. It wasn’t until the morning after that I found out there was a letter with him on the bed. It wasn’t what I thought. I was sure he died of some natural cause, but not this. Not suicide. My dad had suffered from clinical depression for twenty-five years, but I thought he was improving. The last time I saw him he was the same wonderful loving father he had always been, not someone tortured by the encumbrance of depression. Once reality set in, the questions of “What if?” began to haunt me every waking moment. Guilt opaque as tar smothered me as I began to condemn myself for my father’s suicide. I was the one that made him stay in Redmond that weekend. I told him to stay there and not waste gas by driving all the way to Sequim for only a couple days. I truly thought it was my fault. What if told him to come back to Sequim? Would he still be alive? It felt like eternities for me to finally digest that it was not my fault. I couldn’t have stopped the depression overpowering him; his escape was already planned, regardless of what I said.
He left us a six page letter. There was a portion reserved just for me, part of it saying: Leaving you is one of the hardest parts of my decision to leave. Even though it was so hard for him, he still left me alone. I no longer have a father to turn to. With time, healing of my broken heart has come, but there will always be a void. I’ve learned that my dad wasn’t the one that decided to leave me and my family, it was the depression. But shackled to that depression was my father’s exquisite spirit, unable to be free from the mental illness that plagued him. My dad was a wonderful man. He was a perfect representation of charity and integrity. I will never forget the lessons he taught me and the kindness he expressed to all. He had a heart of gold and a spirit brighter than the sun.
My life has changed. In obvious ways, but also ways in which have helped me become a stronger and better person. I have learned to become strong when others are weak; to succor those who are faint from adversity. Persevering with determination and confidence was my only option. I have continued my father’s legacy of trying my best to be a friend to everyone and to greet opportunities of service with a willing heart. I do everything in light of my father, to help me remember the good times when life was painless and whole. To remember the days when I ran home to tell him about my day, making him breakfast in bed, or helping him fix cars much past my bedtime. I love my dad.
This experience has been the mold to shape who I am. Everything I do reminds me of my father and the path he put me on, which led me to learning who I really am. I wouldn’t be me if it weren’t for that summer night, not so long ago.
So is my story happy, sad, good, or bad?
I don't think it is any of them. My story is perfect. This is the way things were meant to be. I have learned so much and have gained a stronger appreciation for life. I know that my Heavenly Father would have never dealt me a trial that I couldn't handle.
I have the power to choose to be happy and to reflect on the memories of my father.
I can push forward with faith that my family is forever.
I know I will be with my daddy again.
