Hard to believe, but some distant corners of the internet still have not heard that my father died. On Tuesday July 6th 2010, he blew himself away after a three hour standoff with a SWAT team. Those of us dad left behind are grateful he didn’t take anyone with him. However, I may laugh in the face of the next person to tell me, “It sounds like the plot from a bad movie!” They’ll probably be shocked at my reaction, but I’m sure they’ll excuse me when I reveal I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that in the past two weeks. Some jokes never get old.
I went back to Arizona to bury my father, and I’m glad I did. I needed to be sure it was really him, and not something copied from one of those movies where a guy fakes his death so he can return later to torment his survivors with impunity. I checked those of dad’s scars I remember as well as my own; it was really him.
Some of my relatives seemed surprised that I came for the funeral and others were openly dismayed. Pay them no mind – resentment and suspicion are just normal byproducts from a bunch of sour grapes. Most of them seemed to have forgotten who I am, but alas not in any functional sense. In turns, they tried to cast me again as the family’s savior, betrayer, all-knowing, clown. They still hate being reminded that I’m not part of their crazy-parade. The adage ‘the best revenge is living well’ couldn’t be truer.
I was in Arizona for nine days, and I spent most of that time driving. It’s sad how often I got lost in my old stomping ground, but the place has changed since the last time I was there. Certain parts of the valley have become veritable ghost towns – abandoned strip malls line the old main streets – but in spite of these opportunities for urban renewal, the people choose urban sprawl. Time was I couldn’t pass a day without seeing a scorpion or rattlesnake. I didn’t see even one of those while I was there, and I went looking for them. It’s no wonder there were so many rodents and cockroaches around. My poor desert is being eaten alive by suburbia. The developers are going the right way for a few plagues, I can tell you.
Instead, let me tell you about the really bad movie in which I wish I had only a bit part…
The call came in the middle of the night, as I always expected it would. Of course grandma was a wreck – I’m glad she had someone there to help her deliver the news about dad. I phoned my sisters afterward to make sure they were together and safe, and to apologize for not answering when they called me first (that’ll teach me not to mute my cell before bed). Mom was next on my list, and I was struck by how hard she took it. I guess dad never let her know how he planned to die; the rest of us were better prepared.
The internet kindly provided me with a few essential facts, and even some grainy news footage, from my dad’s last hours of life. It was a relief to see for myself that he took his own life instead of insisting on ‘death by cop’. I only wish everyone in his situation would be so incongruously considerate in the end.
I worked the next day, if only to arrange almost a week and a half of bereavement leave. Given the circumstances of dad’s death, it was possible that wouldn’t be enough time away to bury him and take care of other unfinished business, but whatever else is true of dying, it’s truest that life goes on without the dead. Case in point: Over 200 people crowded the chapel for dad’s funeral, but only a couple dozen family members stayed for lunch. By sunset, even most of those remainders had already left the state.
Another sad but true fact of life after death is that so much is so predictable. The sun had barely risen over dad’s grave before some of his survivors restarted their drama engines. Since I ran away to college, I’ve rarely been cussed out so early in the morning, or by anyone so alarmingly misinformed about life, the universe and everything. I hadn’t had my tea yet, so I did the humane thing and hung up the phone. Of course it kept ringing, but I’m not someone who lets that sort of thing get to me.
During the sad predictability, I learned something about myself. Against all appearances, I’m apparently physically intimidating enough that people have actually discussed whether or not they’d ever want to get into a fistfight with me. The consensus was, “NO,” which backhanded compliment was the least offensive thing I heard all week.
My favorite soundbites from the trip:
“A little vindictive,”
“Charmed life,”
“So dyke-y,”
“Damn liar,”
“Almost no emotion,”
It’s amusing how the people who know me least still have so much to talk about behind my back. For people who say they don’t want to pick a fight, they sure seem to enjoy stepping into the ring. I’ll leave them sparring with their shadows, though. Only fools engage in witless repartee.
Contrary to everything else that happened, the trip wasn’t entirely awful. I enjoyed some time alone among the mourning doves and aromatic chaparral. The incredible heat reset my thermostat and absolved me of pain for nine days. My sisters and I found enough in common to share a few meals and good laughs – they convinced me to read those stupid shiny vampire books they love so well, ha! So we’ll have something to talk about besides dad, going forward. My mother even managed to make retail therapy enjoyable; the trick is to shop for my son instead of me. I also lost a bunch of weight (in more ways than one)…
Some people reading this may wonder, “Where’s the grief?” The truth is that all the kidnapping, death threats, drugs, guns and misogyny came between dad and I pretty early in our relationship. I was more afraid of him than anything, and you can trust I mean that literally. I’m not saying that I didn’t love him – or even that he didn’t love me – but it’s a complicated emotion. The further truth is that I finished grieving for my father a long time ago. Although the sentiment may seem disappointing in the aftermath of his life, the event of his death was just a sad formality for me.