The Complex Dance with My Dad's Death

The News

Around 7 p.m. on July 2, 2023, my dad took his own life. He shot himself in the heart in the shower of the new cottage he and Mom had just moved into. He didn’t say why. 

Mom was home and heard the shot. She knew immediately what had happened and called 911. Then she ran into the shower where he was sitting on the built-in bench and held his hand and talked to him as he passed away.  

I got the call from my sister near 8 pm. I was at an ice cream parlor with Chris after we had just attended the one-year anniversary party for Bar Rollins, a hip wine bar in town where so many of our friends had congregated that evening in the hot humid Charleston heat. It was one of those perfect nights with Chris, with our friends and community, trying a cute new ice cream parlor, until it all melted. Exploded. Blew up - with the phone call from my sister.  “Andy shot himself and he is dead.”

My sister asked if I was sitting down and I lied. She had called twice and I felt dread since two calls usually aren’t good news. I wanted to eat my ice cream with Chris and enjoy this time together. The calm before the possible storm. After I finished scraping my cup,  I walked out to a sidewalk and made the call. Note to self: When someone asks if you are sitting down, you better sit. When she told me the news my knees buckled and I felt dizzy. We spoke a little longer and I said I would be home first thing tomorrow. I joined  Chris and just mumbled what I knew. Sweet Chris threw away his ice cream and we headed to the car. 

The wave of emotion that hit me next was too big for his car. I couldn’t get in. I fell on the sidewalk. I tried again. But what I was feeling couldn’t be contained in this small space. I got back out and heaved. I cried. I bawled. It was messy being that person in the parking lot when death arrived so unexpectedly. 

I finally got it together enough to head home where I collapsed again with the dogs. Then I sent a text to a bunch of folks to share the news. I asked for no responses but I needed to share Dad’s death with people I love. It made it more real. I was in such a daze and it took forever to pack I was adamant about finding this one photo of Dad from the 80s on a sailboat, looking so happy. I had just brought it back from his house two weeks ago and although I looked everywhere I couldn’t find it. I had it on my phone but I felt I needed the hard copy for the funeral.

A perfect illustration of my dad on that sailboat by Becca Hopkins

The Funeral 

The rest of the week was as you would expect- the family arrived, funeral arrangements were made, pounds of food was brought and flowers were delivered. The funeral was packed and lovely. I gave the eulogy that came to me on my five-hour drive home while listening to East Forest’s album with Ram Das. Always my go-to for grounding and connecting to self and source. 

All through the week the emotions and thoughts flowed. How am I feeling? What am I feeling? What’s next? 

Processing

I speak to my mother almost every day now instead of our usual once a week. I want to check in on her but there’s also so much going on with the endless admin work of death. The other day I asked how she was doing and she did the same. My voice cracked. I told her I was still processing it all. But the fact is, my DAD died. It feels like something has been ripped from my core. Despite his being unwell for years and knowing it could happen at any time. Now it is real. Our family unit is no more. 

Leave it to Joan Didion to help me connect to how I feel in her brilliant book, ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’, she discusses how she felt when her parents died, “The loneliness of the abandoned child of whatever age”.  She highlights  a letter she received from a friend (a former Maryknoll priest), who wrote:

“The death of a parent despite our preparation, indeed, despite our age, dislodges things deep in us, sets off reactions that surprise us and that may  cut free memories and feelings that we had thought gone to ground long ago.”

This resonates. I surprise myself with how little I think of the father I knew the past ten years, but how I miss and think about the dad  I knew in the 80s and 90s. The man who worked hard starting his own business, who was deeply involved with his beloved yacht club, who traveled the world for the best scuba diving experiences, who dressed well, smiled often and laughed deeply. When I was little and he would take road trips for work, he would always come into my bedroom when it was still dark and he was heading out, he would gently rub my leg for a while and then bend over me and whisper how much he loved me. It was so quiet and special. I have remembered this almost every night since he died. 

I inherited a ring and watch he wore for years. Besides those two things, he didn’t own much that would be considered ‘nice’. Things didn’t really matter to him (except cigars and scuba gear!). The ring was passed down from his dad and the watch was given to him by the widow of his best friend when he died. Now I wear them daily and they help me feel close to him. I imagine how different their world is now as I wear them to their first yoga class, to lead a mediation or vogue to Beyonce. It makes me smile to think Dad is part of these moments in my life. 

The Hurt

So now for the hard part. The part of my Dad that made me sad, angry, furious, and hurt. He was politically conservative. He constantly voted against my rights.  His humor was often shameful. This is where processing him has been so hard. Did he really mean it when he said he loved me yet had a friend who had an anti LGBTQ signature on every email? He forwarded something to me from this man one time and I shared my shock and hurt. He often went silent when I challenged him. I think I may be the only person he ever went silent on in this scenario. Was it because he wasn’t good at debating? Didn’t know what to say? Believed in what I was rallying against? I’ll never know. 

While he would often end up silent, he would also often ask my thoughts on things. He would forward me radical right-wing videos or messages and ask for my opinion which  I believe he respected. When I received them I had to take a deep breath and collect my thoughts before responding. It was so far from the world I know. Sadly he fell for much of what Fox News fed him so I was patient with my shares and feedback. 

I processed this with a fellow life coach. We are taking a year-long course called Compassionate Inquiry,  developed by the trauma specialist, Gabor Mate. What she so wisely shared was that my Dad, like her alcoholic father (who passed) was complex. She believes my Dad could still love me deeply yet not connect his vote to being the father of a gay son.  This hits hard.

God knows I told him how much his vote hurt, but I can’t live in anger. I have to find peace for myself. I was recently scrolling through my last post on Instagram. I noticed a comment from him that read, ‘I hope you feel love from ME, which made me feel loving also.’ I did Dad, and I always will. 

Me, dad, and a plastic frog I was obsessed with

The Journey

As I said in my eulogy to him - I am so thankful he is free. Free from years of pain, depression, and anger. Science proves that we are made of energy so I imagine his energy bursting forth through the universe - free. I hear him in the rustle of the leaves, I see him in the great ocean waves, and I feel his presence through the birds in my garden. I am curious what more I will learn from this experience and what other stories will come to mind, long forgotten, from this man whom I called my father for 47 years. Death is life’s greatest mystery, and I welcome this new journey of discovery. 

I love you, Dad.