It was about 5:30 on January 3rd . 2017 and I was sitting on the couch dreading making dinner. The ins and outs of being a wife and mom, it was turkey melt again. It required so much vegetable chopping and everyone hated it anyway. But, it was a new year. The kids went back to school the next day, the holidays were over and it was back to the grind. I begrudgingly stood up from the couch to make my way to the kitchen. Halfway there, my cell phone rang. The screen said “Patrick”, my baby brother. I knew then, but I answered anyway. I don’t send my brother to voicemail.
“Hey”, I said. “Hey”, he replied. His voice broke and my heart sunk. “I hate to be the one to have to tell you this. Dad’s dead. He shot himself.” I could hear the tears rolling down his face, I could hear the fear and despair in his voice. And I fell. I dropped to my knees in the kitchen and howled….what we’ve come to call the ‘grief howl.’ I don’t clearly recall that next bout of time- five minutes? An hour? I’m not sure. I sobbed something to him, assuring him that it’s ok, we’re ok, I’m coming, I’ll be there. I have a vague recollection of my young children gathering, my husband trying to understand. I ended up in a heap on the floor of our guest room, mostly because it was away from my kids, but for no other logical reason. I curled into the floor and sobbed, and cursed. I heard my husband shuffling the kids to their rooms to play. And then I stood. He had made dinner at some point, so I tried to eat. I laid out clothes for my kids for the rest of the week and I went to pack. I stood in my closet fighting the wave….what do I wear? For the love of God, what do I pack for a situation like this? But, I packed, I got in my car and I drove the 2.5 hour drive to San Marcos.
I talked to some people on that drive. My boss and friend, because certainly I would not be at work the next day, but also because she knew. She knew I was spending some time the following week in San Marcos to care for my diabetes ridden father, knew that I’d been feeling some pressure and some pain, so I told her the truth and told her I’d keep her updated. I talked to Ana, my best friend. I can’t tell you what we said, but I do remember her saying “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.” I don’t remember much from that drive- my friend Stephanie texting me with little rhyme or reason. In retrospect, she was keeping me in check. Keeping me driving, distracting a little to ensure I got where I needed to go.
The family had gathered at Kim and Winton’s house as home was a crime scene. I’d never been to Kim and Winton’s and was driving slowly, seeking the double driveway lights indicating entry. A vehicle was backing out as I was coming in, one I didn’t recognize. I rolled down my window and he rolled down his. Big brown eyes met mine and I must’ve looked a little bewildered, lost. He nodded “You’re at the right place.” That was my introduction to my stepsister’s now fiancé, Dustin. And his eyes told me….fuck, this is going to be bad. A whole new kind of bad. I knocked, was ushered in, hugs, tears. I’m not really sure, but my baby brother, right there. No tears yet there, not for me. The shock was astounding, the numbness was a kindness. I sat between my mom and my brother, not knowing what to say. What do you say? My stepmother looked as if her world had ended, and that day it had. We spent that night in a La Quinta because the police would not yet let us back in and we had two big dogs with us. It was easily the worst night of my life and the next day I was charged with the need for action. My family was sad, confused, lost, but there were things to be done. My brother and I went to tell my grandma, my father’s mother, and heard again the grief howl. Smaller, weaker than mine, but there.
There’s a before, during and after to this story. There’s are before tales of the failed metabolism, the daughter that is her father, baseball and chicken nuggets, a good hearted woman, legacies of words, and a great love story. After stories of anxiety, drugs, therapy, tears, heart failure, strength together, and guilt. But this is the during. And the during that is the stigma and the hurt and the darkness that nobody wants to talk about.
None of us know exactly what happened that day to get us to the ending point. My father had hobbled himself into his master bathroom, likely used the restroom, went into his closet, reached into the top shelves, pulled down the Colt .45 passed down from his Marine Colonel father. He positioned a straight back chair just so, facing into the closet, popped the magazine into the Colt, placed it against his temple and pulled the trigger. The destruction was absolute and, likely, his purpose was achieved in seconds. The bullet tore through his skull and embedded itself in the bathroom sheetrock wall. The mess left behind coated the master bathroom. My stepmother, the light to my father’s darkness, came home from work at some point thereafter and went in immediately to check on him. When she found him, it did not register what she was viewing, so she called my brother for help. Certainly, with the blood, he must have fallen. Perhaps the mess….he had vomited maybe. Something was very wrong. There was no pulse, they were both on the phone with 911 when they saw the gun on the floor. The story told itself and they went outside to await the paramedics, police officers, justice of the peace. To await the masses of people that would swarm the scene and take him away, broken and bloody and gone.
This is not the story of my father, but it is part of him. It is what I consider the ‘during’ right now. It is a darkness and a sadness and a horror that we wish had not happened. But it did and it’s time that we talk about it. He could not come out of the darkness, but it’s time that we did.
Light & Dark 