CONFESSIONS that heal by being real
I am embarrassed, yes bare-assed to admit that I could have thought such a thing about my daddy's dying of a sudden heart attack in 1977. Maybe even shocked. But why should I be? I am human and still a child at heart. I have always loved my father. As a very young child I would run down the driveway to meet him when he arrived home from work. He would open the green Chevy door, and lift me onto his lap (tears) so together we could drive to our house. This ritual I would share every other day with my sister who is one year younger than me. I have many together-memories with my dad who was an equal-participatory parent with my mother who stayed at home, being way ahead of his time. So, how could I be relieved that he passed away? He was only sixty. We could have had many more good times together. Shouldn't being together be the preeminent confession? Dad became a diabetic during his service in WWII, creating how my parents met; my mother being the nurse who took care of him on the ship sailing home after the war. They fell in love, and that's how I want my story of dad and me to end. But like today when the wet snow is breaking off huge maple tree limbs in April, I am saddened to admit that I was relieved that I did not have to experience the burden of taking care of my diabetic father as he aged. My dad, calling himself the geezer, had voiced to me more than once that he did want to become a burden to his children. Still, wasn't my love strong enough to want to do so? Dad was still working as a researcher in space sciences at Cornell university when he died, despite being blind in one eye; a common result of diabetes. Dad took good care of himself with exercise and eating properly, visibly embarrassed when by chance I saw him one day at work with a cigarette in his mouth. He would hide his smoking at home in the basement, away from his family. For that I am greatfull; hiding the smoking that is. Now, I want to hide, my admission, despite the advantages of his early death. That dad would not suffer from further blindness, having to continue years of daily insulin injections, from possible kidney failure and common amputations of the lower extremities, where he was most vulnerable. Now, I want him back!!! and have for years. So many tears of missing him continue to fall, which open my heart to the pain of his 52 years of absence. (tears) I would be more than happy to take care of him now. If only. Since his death, I have become a psychotherapist who grew into grieving for the sake of love. As in the 2012 silent movie, The Artist, where I was surprised to read a placard, TEARS OF LOVE; a statement I had never read outside of my journal; I wish to make such a bumper sticker. Just last week, my 18-year-psychotherapist-friend, Sue, who rejected me in 2010, was walking down the sidewalk near me, and as I turned to see her, I spontaneously smiled, saying, "How are you?", moving to hug her. She replied, "Good," and continued walking without losing a beat in her step. Her evasion of me was not surprising; my feeling of continued love for her was not surprising either. My littered-feeling of pride in myself I wish was not there. In the past year I have developed a very deep friendship with another psychotherapist, Gayle. We walk in the woods often, taking in the healing beauty. A month ago, I found a near perfect tear-shaped rock while with her, lovingly carrying it to my door-step. Since then, during one of Gayle's nature-walks alone, she asked the Universe to give her a heart-shaped rock for Dianea, and within 3 seconds, she looked down and found one, the size of a real heart. She was so excited she called me, saying, "I have never had such a wish answered so quickly before." Just a week ago, Gayle left a tear-shaped rock at the entrance of my office, identical in size and shape to the tear-shaped rock I had recovered from the woods. She says we are soul-sisters. It can only get better...the presence of LOVE that is.