Why Death is for Me | Part two: "The Hill He Died On"

Trigger Warning: This article features the topic of suicide, strong language, and details that may seem frightening. Please strongly consider your current state of mind before proceeding.



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We turned the corner into the neighborhood. As we parked, we could hear her screaming. Before we entered the house, we already knew what was coming.

Josie was possessed. As she wailed and struggled in the arms of her daughters, she told the chaplain and the accompanying officer to shut up and get the fuck out of her house...as if they had been the ones to kill him. The chaplain stood there helpless and unsure, but not shocked.

The evening before, Josie had called to tell us our father was in trouble and had gone missing. We shrugged it off and tried to let it go. The last thing we considered our father was "present and reliable." Not showing up or answering his phone? That was his main storyline—no surprises there.

But his girlfriend had never called to ask us where he was before...We were the last stop.

We listened to the line ring with no answer as we dialed his number repeatedly. I thought—just maybe—if it was me, he would pick up. I hadn't called him in years...If he looked at his phone and saw my name glowing on that screen, it would stop him in his tracks and I would be that special one he wanted to talk to. Pretty soon it no longer even rang. Just a cryptic, dead line.

Josie's daughter had been the last one to see him in the flesh. She recounted her story matter-of-factly, listing every detail she could:

-He was in the kitchen, eating a banana when she came home from school.

-He went upstairs for a shower.

-He came down and kissed her forehead before he said goodbye.

-She heard the shed door open. He came out of the shed and walked around the house towards the car.

-He drove off.

She listed all these things like they were a normal, boring set of events. But, none of this had been normal.

I had ignored the nagging feeling in my stomach for long enough. I finally asked the question that had been on my mind since hearing what his last movements were. "Was there anything in the shed that he could use to hurt himself?"

When I asked it out loud, it sounded as if I was on the outside. That ball in my stomach didn't tickle when I said it. It didn't confirm or deny that my intuition was right.

He wouldn't do that. Would he?

Whatever Josie had responded with didn't matter. Nothing blatantly dangerous had been removed from the shed. The item he had taken from inside was so innocuous that, when the shed had been searched, nothing was found to be missing.

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It was a winter morning when a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed couple accompanied their realtor to visit a big, empty lot. It overlooked hills and beautiful homes. It was surrounded by nature, tucked away and quiet. It was peaceful. A sanctuary from the traffic and the city.

They noticed a little white Daewoo parked on the lot with the engine running. The man inside looked like he was sleeping. But he wasn't. The hose that had been snaked through the window from the tailpipe gave it away.

The coroner's office had no choice but to put the date of discovery on his death certificate—the same exact date on my little sister's birth certificate, only 21 years later. My uncles had searched high and low for my father, but they never would have found him. They couldn't have known the amount of planning my father had done before he died.

My dad had described that spot to his brother once. He had done some work on a home in that faraway place, which that hill overlooked. He said it was one of the prettiest houses he had ever seen.

I can imagine how he probably talked about that home. Once, we were listening to a Taylor Swift song on the radio and he said,

"Her voice is just so... beautiful."

I remember the twinkle in his eye during that moment. His genuine love of her voice made me laugh out loud. I couldn't wrap my head around a grown man having such a deep and wholesome admiration for Taylor Swift.

What I also couldn't wrap my head around was everything I never expected to happen, happening all at once. I had driven 4 hours to see my baby sister celebrate her 21st birthday. Instead, the trip had turned into a manhunt and a funeral. I asked that one-worded question everyone asks when death comes to visit: Why?

There were so many reasons for why he decided to get in that car and never come back. Maybe they were good, and maybe they were bad. Whatever the case, they were reasons. And they were his.

My father was a bad man sometimes. And sometimes he was good. Sometimes he was funny, and giving, and brave. Other times, he was a fleeing coward, and a borderline narcissist who put himself first whatever the cost. He was different things to different people, and when he died, he morphed for me every day. My grief made him awful, and beautiful. A monster that I loved and craved to see again. The worst dad ever, but still my dad. A sad man, disappointing and disappointed. Lonely in his last moments. Free of this world.

There are still days where he takes a different shape...but I have to remember what my job is. My job is not to fix him. He is eternally broken. I cannot pick up the pieces of him and glue them back together. What my job is, is to grieve him from my perspective. I can acknowledge the bad parts, but I don't have to grieve those—at least not for his sake. I can grieve the good parts...the parts worth missing.

However—"holding onto the good and throwing away the bad" is not the option available to me. If it were possible to mourn him in the same artificial way we mourn movie stars, I might be able to disconnect. I could make him a saint posthumously—glamorize the good times. Pretend his character flaws and bad story lines were simply due to poor casting and a shitty script. But that would only be another way to avoid the truth and its magnitude.

His existence in my world was too involved to play pretend. It ran deeper than having watched him play a character on screen, or having listened to his songs on the radio, imagining he was singing just for me. He was a real live character in my very real life, and he did sing songs that were just for me and my sisters...on his guitar and at the local Applebee's on karaoke night.

We had layers—we had issues. We had memories. Good, bad, and in between.

At the end of it all, he was human. And the human condition is a complicated one. It's possible that if I were someone else, standing miles away from the impact, I would condemn my grief for this man. But alas, we don't have a say in who we grieve. And denying grief is like denying death itself.

So, when there is no choice but to go through hell, how do you go through it?

END OF PART TWO.