After my mother died my father remarried. He was looking for a way out of a financial bind and a new mother for me – or a way to not be alone because he knew I wanted to live with one of my sisters. So, my father made a mistake and he married an abusive witch who made my life, our lives, hell until we escaped. I left for college; he left for heaven. The last five years before I graduated high school was not only a hell created and maintained by my step-monster, but my father emotionally abandoned me at the same time. His abandon was driven by many things, mostly those pesky good intentions, but mainly by my step-monster’s “rules”. I was not allowed to talk with my father alone. Ever. And that was one thing he and I had my entire life – time alone together for philosophical conversations, even as a very young child. I tried to hold on to the fact that my father loved me during this time but many of his behaviors did not demonstrate love. However, on the other side of that period of time it would turn out to be the knowledge that he loved me that would facilitate the healing of my broken heart.
That’s me on my first birthday in my Daddy’s arms.
I went to university in another city and only visited him once a year and only at our church building. I refused to return to that witch’s house ever again after I left town hours after high school graduation. Then he was diagnosed with lymphoma. I can’t remember any details of that except I kept up to date with his progress through my sister – his oldest daughter – and I was able to talk to him on the phone occasionally. Even though I’d prayed for his healing and elicited prayers from my Watch-Care church, I prepared myself for his death. He was in his late 70s living with an inhumane abusive human, trying to help pastor a church while our pastor was in jail. I found a level of resolution and peace about his death, which would possibly happen during critical classes in my final year, and would alert my professors and the dean that I might miss a week of classes with little notice should he die.
Because my father was old and ill (he was healed of the cancer, but his body was worn out from the chemo) I went to visit him over Christmas break during my last year in school. Unfortunately this meant I had to go into the step-monster’s house and she had the nerve to try and keep me away from him – I’d had a lingering cough from pneumonia but was well. She and I almost fought, physically, twice during that short visit. But it was during that visit, he and I finally and truly reconciled. We shared a few poignant moments that I am very grateful for because that was the last time I would see him alive.
That Valentine’s Day, a Monday, was an early day in my teaching schedule – I had to get up about 5AM to be sure to arrive at school in time. After I finished my shower, still standing in my robe, I saw my answering machine flashing. My heart fell. No one would call me at that hour unless it was horrible news. I listened to the message hoping the person would have left the details of the call in the message but they didn’t. It was my sister – my father’s oldest daughter – telling me to call her as soon as possible. That could only mean that something had happened to Daddy. I thought to take a moment and calm my breathing, maybe get dressed to feel less vulnerable but I couldn’t wait to hear the bad news. She spoke with nervous energy and asked an odd question – she asked if I knew why she was calling. I suppose someone else should have called me first because someone called her to tell her what she called to relay. But no one had called and I didn’t expect anyone to call me with any news about Daddy but her. And I really wanted her to get to the point. I told her I assumed it was something about Daddy and she told me that he’d died about an hour or two before she called.
I told her I needed to get to the school but to let me know as soon as anyone decided on a date for the funeral so I could alert the dean and try to work something out to be at the funeral and to graduate on time. I didn’t really cry – a few tears made their way through but I didn’t give in to the urge to cry. I had business to take care of, like figuring out how to get to a funeral and back to class within the allowed days of absence required to pass. I couldn’t break down – be non-functional – so I didn’t allow grief to set in.
I went to school and told the lead teachers that my father had died that morning and that I would need to speak with the dean when she arrived. The dean’s son was in my class and one of my assigned students to monitor development (no pressure, right) so I would see her when she dropped him off. One of the lead teachers interrupted me just after I said the words that my father had died and unofficially suggested I be allowed more time off and still be allowed to graduate on time. She gave me the standard 5 days that the employed teachers received as a part of their benefits and I was so grateful. I asked to stay and finish that day because I had no idea when the funeral would be. You see, there are many things that can delay a funeral in the Black American culture and I was the only black person in my whole major at that school. I hoped they were ready back home and could pull it off within that week but I didn’t know.
Because that day was so exhausting emotionally, and I was developing some weird nervous ticks, I started my 5 days leave the next day, that Tuesday. I still hadn’t really cried and was making my heart harder by the minute. My friends indulged me – I sort of lived those days in a weird haze, both wanting people to know my father was gone and not wanting anyone to say anything that would make me cry. And I took phone calls from various loved ones in Memphis annoyed by the fact checking of all the scandals – not only was I entirely uninterested in the drama I’d left behind for school, but I was the only person not living there so why would I know the answer to any of those questions? But I suppose that is a part of it all – what secrets did they know that I didn’t and vice versa. Anyway, not quite soon enough, I was on my way to say farewell to my father.
Again, I was everyone’s concern, just as I was when my mother died. But I vowed to do some things differently with his death. I wouldn’t wait on the adults to figure out what they were going to do about me. I would take care of myself as much as I could.
I refused to be a part of the funeral procession because I’d learned to hate limos since the first time I rode in one was on the way to my mother’s funeral. I’d always hated following hearses and didn’t want a police escort. I didn’t want to ride with headlights on. So I stayed with my father’s oldest daughter and went to the funeral with her promise to be my shield, allowing me to manage the funeral just as I wanted to. I also refused to view the body. That was the best choice I ever made – the last memory I have of him was us sitting together and laughing, having dinner. I have absolutely no memory of him dead and I’m glad. But this refusal meant I would not go into the church until the family processioned in because the service started with the casket open. My father’s oldest daughter, all of his children in fact, were near the back of the procession. That was not where we were supposed to be but it demonstrates just how my step-monster tore us apart. Thankfully my father’s siblings and some cousins were near the front. Some of them thought it was inappropriate that they sat in front of us but I didn’t care. I only wanted family up there and not just church folk holding step-monster up. In fact, they didn’t even know I was there until I went to speak on behalf of the family. Yes, I was on the program. No, none of the people who wrote the program told me. These were also people who claimed to be unable to find a phone number to call me and let me know my father had died. My sister let me know I was on program, thankfully, and I was able to prepare.
The funeral was not until the following Saturday, and he wasn’t buried until the following Tuesday. I returned to school that Sunday, missing the burial. I had a degree to get and no more grant and scholarship money. I managed to only need a loan for a semester and a half and I would be damned if I had to repeat a semester for a burial service. And honestly, I believe my father would have understood and even encouraged me to get my degree under those circumstances. I’ve always felt that the burial was the worst part of any funeral – dropping the body of your loved ones into freshly dug ground feels cruel. That’s not particularly logical, I know, but it’s how I feel.
The first Valentine’s Day after he died I was furious and found myself feeling that way every Valentine’s Day after that. I thought I’d handled the situation well but in reality there was still a bunch of feelings just swept under the carpet. The refusal to grieve my father until I got my degree really meant refusal to grieve for much longer than that. The reminder that the ex who I’d once dreamed of marrying was not the right guy – he called the day Daddy died, not to offer condolences but to seek sympathy for the “saddest Valentine’s Day of his life”. The inappropriate men taking advantage of my vulnerability by hitting on me at the funeral and during the repast. The guilt I felt for having essentially abandoned much of my family simply by trying to abandon my father and step-monster. And I never knew I hated Valentine’s Day until then.
Men coming out of the grocery store with bouquets, heart-shaped candy boxes, and pink and red balloons pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. High schoolers getting on buses with giant teddy bears pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. I asked myself if it was because I didn’t have a “valentine” that day but that didn’t ring true to my emotions. Valentine’s day had never been a big deal to me and I had never received anything that felt significant from any boyfriend I’d had on valentine’s day. Even my secret admirer valentine’s day gifts were blah – I would have preferred to know who the admirer was rather than have a secret gift. So I blamed it on my Daddy’s death. It was easy to do – after all, he died on Valentine’s Day.
When I was young Valentine’s Day meant cardboard valentine’s cards, candy, and a day at school that ended with a party or a dance. Then as a young adult Valentine’s Day meant my daddy died. But now as a not-as-young adult, Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean anything at all. You know how I know? I literally forgot all about it. I didn’t send out social media greetings in memory of my father. I didn’t send any gifts to family or friends nearby. I didn’t even send myself flowers or buy any candy. When was it, Sunday? Yeah, just a regular old day.
I used to like February 14th. Then I didn’t. Now it’s not so bad.
I am Regina Lynette 