Four Years

Anyone who was raised by my mother learned a lot of lessons, whether they knew it or not, about quiet strength. My siblings and I handle things in vastly different ways, but it is impossible to deny that we all picked up a good bit of Mom’s durability and resolve along the way.

Four years ago today, we were tested to see how well we had learned those lessons when my father — after years of struggling (mostly in silence) with PTSD — committed suicide somewhere in Arizona.

Of course, people are supposed to out-live their parents. They’re supposed to have been equipped by that point with the mechanisms they need to cope with the loss. Our loss came a lot earlier than it “should” and it came with the added difficulty of suicide to spice things up a bit.

We all seemed to have been prepared to handle it. My sister, easily the most emotional of the four of us — and a consummate daddy’s girl, gave a wonderful eulogy at the funeral and did so with more composure than I’d expect of anyone in that situation. My baby sister, who was barely old enough to drive at the time, weathered the storm, too, and came out the other side no worse for the wear. R.J. had to come to terms with some unresolved disagreements, but in the end used the blow to get his some aspects of his life pointed back in the right direction that had somehow gone askew.

This isn’t to say that any of us did it alone — nothing could be farther from the truth. We did it together, and we also each had our own support networks to hold us up. The law school really buoyed me on the rough days and many wonderful friends scattered throughout the country sent thoughtful reminders that life goes on.

Still, so much of the grieving and mourning happens internally. It has to — that’s where it hurts. If you can’t endure that and come to terms with it, no amount of external support is going to save you.

I learned a lot about my family in the days that followed Dad’s passing and gained a great deal of admiration and respect for those kids who used to drive me right up the wall (and still sometimes do).

November 13th isn’t a day I mark on the calendar. It’s not a day that I dread or look forward to. But it always ends up being, at least in pockets and parts, a more somber and reflective day. It’s that way much like all milestones are (and probably will be for quite some time). It’s a good reminder that lots of cliches actually mean things. Like “life is short.” Often it’s shorter than we’d like and sometimes tragically so. It’s a good reminder that you won’t always have a “tomorrow” to procrastinate to. It’s a good reminder that as well as we might think we know someone, we probably don’t know them as well as we think.

But it’s not an unhappy or depressing day, necessarily. Dad was always a coach and a teacher. Even in death he taught us things, and I think that’d have made him pretty happy.

Still, and I guess this is the very essence of losing someone, there are always going to be things I wish I could tell him.

Semper Fi, Pops.

Tags: Dad, Family