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It Was Complicated

I miss you, dad

By Denise WillisPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
3
It Was Complicated
Photo by Seif Eddin Khayat on Unsplash

I never knew my father with anything but silver hair. He was fifty-seven when I was born.

My father had an almost genius IQ, but he also had many problems that kept him from succeeding. He was a paranoid schizophrenic at a time when there was no medication for the mental disorder. My father was also bipolar, and being bipolar myself, I can tell you it is a complex disorder.

Dad could cook like the best chef in town, with roasts that were pink inside and crispy brown on the outside. He fixed our cars with nothing more to work with than a safety pin, and he always figured out a way to find enough food for us to eat and a place for us to stay.

Even though dad was a good chef, teaching us to cook was beyond his patience. He would end up taking over and finishing the dish we were making because he couldn't stand watching me go so slow.

I got married when I was twenty-one and unfortunately lived with my new husband's parents. My new husband's parents worked during the day, and my job was to have dinner ready when everyone got home from work. Panic was too mild a word for the fear racing through my chest when I realized I had to have dinner prepared for everyone. All I knew how to make was spam and pineapple, jello, and Bisquick cake.

Every morning when my husband and his parents left, I would call my father, and he would walk me through a fantastic dish that always drew great praise. I don't know where he found the patience, but thank God he did. We went through this ritual for a couple of months before my husband found an apartment for us.

Looking back, my father was there for me when I needed him. He helped me through a tough spot with his cooking expertise and always talked to me and explained things to me as best he could. When I was four, we were visiting my grandmother, and I thought I saw a big clown's hand coming out from behind the bedroom door that grew so big it encompassed the room and swirled around me with different colors in the white light that was surrounding me. I screamed and cried for my father, and he came right up and told me it was only the hand of God, and He was there to protect me, so I didn't have any reason to be afraid. My father always knew how to calm me down. We took walks together and talked about the clouds in the sky. He always praised my art abilities and praised me as a person.

My father passed away in September of 1978. I was living in San Diego, and dad and I hadn't spoken for several weeks. He was losing touch with the world and thought my son was his, and I was trying to take the child away from him. People spoke poorly of my father because they didn't understand the disease ravaging his brain; paranoid schizophrenia. Medications were still in the infancy stage.

Two days after dad passed away, I walked into my parent's mobile home in Colorado, threw down my purse, and ran to my mother, surrounding her with my arms and holding her close. I went into their bedroom, buried my face with his shirts hanging in the closet, and inhaled his familiar smell as tears streamed down my face. Losing a parent is difficult, especially for a parent you have a close connection.

I would still give anything for one day with my father to sit down together, talk, laugh, drink coffee, and tell him how much I love him.

grief
3

About the Creator

Denise Willis

I love art as much as writing, and when the world feels dark, I get out my paper and colored pencils and draw while listening to music. When my husband and I were going through a divorce, journaling is what got me through that..

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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  1. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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Comments (1)

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  • Amy Hallabout a year ago

    I'm sorry to hear of your great loss. It's never easy when they loved you, and you them. I hope your grief subsides wherever possible. We'll written

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