Lost Photograph
March 28th, 2012
Last Thursday morning, I woke up with a cold. My immunity has made a noble comeback and it was my first cold all winter. I felt badly enough to cancel out my day to rest and work at home.
Around 10 AM, I got a phone call. I saw on the caller ID that it was my uncle, my dad’s caretaker and somebody who never calls me. My heart sunk seeing his name flash on the home phone.
He was calling to let me know that my dad had just died. It looked like a heart attack.
After getting more of the details of what happened, what was going to happen, I got off the phone, let others know, and then felt the news sink in.
I went upstairs to the attic and pulled out a couple of boxes of loose photographs. My grandma had given me some family photos from her similarly organized collection before she died, and there was one in particular I was seeking out.
The photos were dots on the timeline of Dad’s life, and it was my job to try to connect them.
His life, once so full of potential, was cruelly derailed by mental illness.
He was the first of my grandparents’ three children. Born bright, beautiful, and precociously verbal, he was beloved by them both.
He protected his little brother in their New York neighborhoods. His friends described him as fiery and mischievous.
Moving across the country to Los Angeles as a teenager, he never lost his New York accent. I even called the hot morning beverage “cawfee” as a child. His precociousness played out, and he did well in school. He got into UCLA at 16, the first in his family to go to college.
****
There is a photograph that fits in this point of the timeline that I cannot find. It’s a picture of my 17 year old dad in front of his Volkswagen Beetle on a palm tree lined Los Angeles street. He is full of swagger, his long legs crossed, head tilted with his thick brown hair flopped to the side. The look in his eyes asks the world to dare him: he was game for anything.
I found that photo when I was younger and spent a long time staring at it, memorizing it. I imagined it was before he had his first breakdown. I always wished I could go back to that moment and figure out what I might do to save him from the demons that haunted him the rest of his life.
I was his daughter, loving and loyal. I wished I could save him from himself.
But I couldn’t.
****
Somewhere soon after that moment, my mother got swept up by the bright, handsome young man, meeting him on a beach. They married, had my brother and, soon after, I came along.
My parents divorced before I was two. My dad couldn’t hold a job and was increasingly tormented by his ailment.
He was my dad in spots and patches. A weekend dad for most of my childhood, there was a long period of limited communication between my 12th and 18th years.
He was a confusing father in many ways. His stories would crossover seamlessly into fantasy. It took some sorting to realize that Dad was not a veteran of the Vietnam war. I was suspicious from the outset that he did not single-handedly thwart the first Kennedy assassination attempt, although I have a detailed account of his heroic actions handwritten on yellow legal paper.
When he was manic, he would often leave me alone in his apartment, kept company by the shadows cast by the street lamps, while he walked for hours until the sun rose. When he was depressed, I would wait for him to wake, poking and jabbing him. When I couldn’t rouse him, I would forage in his understocked kitchen for something to eat.
Eventually, the court ordered that I could not stay alone with him. My grandmother had to be present to make sure I was cared for.
When we reconnected, I was in college. He was living in a psychiatric hospital at that point but soon after was discharged.
The greatest period of our relationship happened when I was between the ages of 18 and 35. I was independent enough not to need him much and old enough to have compassion for his situation.
I am like him in many ways. I was a precocious child. I love reading, ideas, and music. My grandmother recognized, with some concern, that I shared his “tender heart.” Like him, anger only increases my verbal acuity.
I admit, I never quite let go of the desire to rescue him from himself.
I spent a good chunk of time in my twenties researching mental illness, wondering where the ailment ended and the man began.
Was he like this because of the labels he had been given? Would he more truly be himself without pharmaceuticals? Is mental illness just nonconformity pathologized?
All the while, he would come and go, both literally and figuratively. He would have periods of descending into breakdowns, unreachable. He made it for some of my life events, but not for others. He loved being a grandpa and took delight in my children.
;
As sudden as death by heart attack is, I have been letting go of my dad for some time.
I started saying goodbye the week my stepbrother Jeremy was diagnosed with cancer.
They were not related, but I loved them both so these events are permanently linked for me.
The week Jeremy was in the hospital, my dad went AWOL from the board and care he was living at. He had been cheeking his medications and had gotten really crazy.
I went straight from the hellish week in San Francisco listening to Jeremy’s news get worse and worse, down to Los Angeles, where I bought a disposable cell phone and used the number on missing persons flyers we posted around my dad’s neighborhood. My husband and I slowly drove the alleys at night, checking out the homeless guys to see if we could find my dad. I made daily calls to the city morgue to see if any new John Does had turned up that fit my dad’s description.
It was horrible.
Dad eventually returned to his home two weeks later, having wandered miles on foot through a famously pedestrian unfriendly city. His psychiatrist said that after that much time off of his medication, his baseline would not quite be the same. The board and care said that they could no longer care for him given that he was now a flight risk.
Dad never fully recovered from that episode. To be honest, neither did I.
I still stayed in contact with him, but he never was quite the same.
When I was diagnosed with cancer, my uncle and I had a few discussions about whether Dad could handle the news. We decided it might be best to wait until my prognosis was clearer.
When I called him a few months ago, I was unable to have a coherent conversation. So I never told him.
****
I wish I could find that missing photograph. I wish I could show you just how much promise he had so you could join me in mourning not only the life he lost, but the life he never got to live.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 28th, 2012 at 12:40 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
<3
Oh, my heart goes out to you. And to him. And to all the moments and years you missed together. May, somehow, your heart & spirit be able to meet him, in reverie, meditation or dreamstate, to love him & feel his love now that he is free.
I am so sorry for your loss.
May peace seep into every moment & healing come.
Lani,
There’s so much to this post and story: three generations’ worth, in fact, and the river of grief that mental illness leaves in its wake.
And no, no, I do not in any way believe that mental illness is nonconforming behavior medicalized…that would deny the human part of our nature. The best part of your dad — the wonderful traits that you identify with and admire? That’s who he was. Not the man who wandered, unable to care for himself or even make sense.
I wish you’d had more of him, Lani, and I’m so sorry for the loss. Not his death, necessarily, but for the loss of him as a functional parent. I get that. There is mental illness in my family, and yes, we miss those who could have been.
Love to you,
jms
Oh Lani, this post leaves me speechless. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m so sorry for all you missed out on. I’m so sorry your father led such a troubled life. It’s heartbreaking for so many reasons.
Despite your unsteady relationship, you loved each other and in the end that’s what matters most. Thank you for this bittersweet tribute. And I hope you find that missing photograph some day. Sending you hugs and wishes for your continued healing.
Beautiful. Painful. Powerful.
I love you. I am sorry. I have had white knight syndrome all my life Lani Pants. <3
Lani,
What an amazing and incredibly moving post. I am so sorry for your loss. I can see the photo you described of your Dad at 17 in my head. I have this image of him so clearly painted by you. You are amazing.
I hope you are able to find the photo. But, mostly I am sorry for the loss of your father – both present and past.
Sending hugs to you and prayers and positive thoughts out to you and your family.
xoxo
Lisa
Very honest and heartfelt, your catharsis is our gain. Thank you for sharing.
Oh, CB…
I know you know how much I can relate to this. When I first went off to college, I majored in psychology. We never did know what my mother’s actual diagnosis was (she would never, ever let herself be evaluated), but when I described her to a couple of psychologists, they both thought it sounded like bipolar disorder with some elements of a paranoid personality disorder. She never did get any sort of treatment, which may have been just as well. There wasn’t much on offer back then. And what there was would likely have disrupted life even more. It’s hard to say. I’ve learned to let go of second-guessing, especially after she died. I was 40 that year. She was just shy of 73. Like you, I spent so much of my adulthood teaching myself how to let go of her. And yet her physical death brought back the all the sadness, the terrible waste, the sheer heartbreak of watching what mental illness put her through. Like your dad, my mom was brilliantly intelligent, high IQ, highest in her class. The sorrow is deep. As is the irony of how much of who I am I owe to the gifts she passed on.
Here’s an old post:
http://accidentalamazon.com/blog/2009/07/11/sleeping-with-the-light-on/
All my love to you, Dear One, from one who knows.
Kathi
Wow…
Strange reaction, I know, but this post has otherwise left me speechless. I am very sorry for the loss of your father, and even more sorry for the gut punch it must be to have misplaced that photo. I am grateful to Nancy of Nancy’s Point for sharing this post, and hope that you are able to find the photo.
Wishing you peace and strength on your journey,
Casey B
Lani,
What a beautiful tribute to your dad. I love how absolutely unflinching you are in facing all of life, not just the cheery happy parts. You’re that way with your cancer and your relationship with your dad. A lot of people avoid discussing mental illness the same way we all used to avoid discussing cancer and there’s no shame in either one. Something tells me you dad would have been very proud of you for writing this. He sounds like a wonderful man.
Lani, I’m so sorry for your loss. As you may know, I’ve recently traveled across country with just my dad to attend a wedding. My father is a tough cookie and I was trying to keep in sight how lucky I am to have this time, but he makes it difficult. Your post reminded me again how fleeting it all is. I’m sorry your dad’s illness got in the way of you truly enjoying your relationship, but I want to thank you for sharing him in such a personal way through your memories and photos. I hope you find that photo someday. xoxo
Lani,
I hope you do find that photograph, but it is not necessary for any of us to see it. You painted a vivid picture…enough so I (we) can join you in mournig the loss of your father and the life he never really lived, like we would hope for him. But his life gave rise to you and subsequently your children. Although his life took him down a road he didn’t have much choice in following, he has left behind a wonderful legacy…he has left his mark on the world. Through your work with children/young adults, and as an advocate for those with cancer, you carry on the goodness that was in him. His light continues to shine through you, as your light will burn bright through your children. Look in the mirror and see his best qualities, mourn his loss, but find great joy in the fruit born from his life.
My love to you Lani.
Nancy
I hope you find the missing photograph. I think you are right to grieve for both the loss of your father, and for the life his illness prevented.
My mother was bipolar and alcoholic (a fun combination). I do not think there is any way to really prepare yourself for the moment, even when you know it is coming, and you have been bracing yourself for the eventuality. The loss of a parent is like nothing else. Be gentle to yourself.
Know that you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
Lani, we were sorry to hear the loss of your Dad and the phot that could help you remember him. Your eloquent description was a moving description oh a Dad who suffered for so many years without the possibilities of what today’s medicines can provide.
Please know we are thinking of you.
All our best,
Ellen and Norm
Lani-
This was such a beautiful read. I too know about loosing someone and mourning the life that they could not live…
Your discription of the photo is so perfect I can picture it!
I hope you can continue to find peace…
Sending my love and prayers
xoxoxo
Lani,
And I sit here with tears streaming down my face. Your words are powerful and you shared every step of your life journey with your dad.
Nancy captures everything I want to say. You are his legacy. Your children delighted him. He did what he could during your life-throughout his entire life.
The brain is one of the most least understood organs in our bodies. Mental illness can be so difficult to accept, especially when you have glimpses of “normal” scattered throughout.
Love to you, my friend,
AnneMarie
Oh Lanissima!
Totally brought to tears. You’ve carried a big cross…is that the saying? Sorry.
There are no words. I am so sorry for his loss but am grateful in you sharing this nice chubby piece of your history that makes you so amazing!
I love you and gosh, that first pic with His Mother holding him…kinda looked like Judah.
I know the picture will turn up! You’re just not supposed to find it right now.
Many, many hugs!!
xxxLisa
Lani,
So poignant. I’m so sorry for all you are going through. Thank you for your honest discussion of mental illness.
Hugs,
Beth
Lani,
I mourn for the relationship that “could have been” between you and your father. In many ways, I identify.
My mother has always been mentally ill, although I didn’t know that until a few years ago when she was well into dementia. She’s always been super sensitive and incredibly difficult. Now, when I look at her from the perspective of having mental illness, everything falls into place so clearly. Part of me feels guilty for not making more allowances for her.
You knew about your father’s illness and were able to put all that goes with it into more of a proper perspective. I’m sorry for your loss, the recent one and the one that happened long ago.
XOXOXO,
Brenda
Although I do not know you, I always grieve a tough life, wasted hours, an early death. Life is so precious that I can hardly bear to see one that does not, can not live up to its potential. Please accept my heartfelt sympathy and love.
Lani, I am soul-touched by the sad beauty and poignancy of your story. As I scrolled through the resulting comments a picture formed in my mind a la The Grinch That Stole Christmas. One by one the Whos came out of the little homes and walked to join hands in loss & love to protectively surround the remaining tree and sing, voices linked in joyful harmony despite the pain to celebrate life. I see that for you right at this moment. Lovely people from all over the planet joining hands around you in support and love. I am as touched by their words as I am yours. I hope you can feel what I can see. It’s a beautiful picture. Peace, my friend.
My heart aches reading this Lani..for you, for your Dad, for your family..and for other more personal reasons. You are very much in my heart this week xxxx
This was so hard to read, Lani. Like Marie, my heart aches for you and yours. Mental illnesses can be so destructive, and it’s hard if not impossible to explain that kind of anti-social behavior to others. I’ve struggled with it in my immediate family. So sad. Thanks for having the courage to share all this with us. XX
I read your posts as a tribute to love, survival, and the deep curiosity that almost always seems to be part of both. You are missed in Washington, Lani. I wish you knew how often I hear your name when I am working in schools.
I am so very sorry for your loss. My own mother was an alcoholic. Although my mother chose to drink her life away and your father couldn’t help his mental illness, the abandonment of a parent to …something else….feels the same to a child. I completely understand when you say you have already mourned him. I mourned the loss of my mother years before she actually died. When she did die (of alcoholism), I was only left with the finality of knowing that now, for sure, I would never have a mother. She would never wake up from her life of booze and realize what was precious.
But, this hardship has made you stronger in many ways, as it has me, some you probably don’t even recognize yet. I only hope that your own mother was able to make up for some of the problems you had as a child and it sounds like you have a good memory or two of your dad. Hang on to those.
Lani, so sad. So sad that you didn’t have the parent you wanted and hoped for. I also hope you find that photo, but agree with others, that the image is so powerful I’m sure it will be with you forever anyway.
Situations like this remind me how important my network in cyberspace is, that there are people who we can share these things with.
Love to you, Sarah
I am taken aback and truly moved by your responses. Thank you so much for your kind words, compassion, and understanding. I am so grateful for you all.
Just reading this for the first time, having found your post on Marie’s site. What an incredible portrait of love and loss in life and death. Thank you for sharing, and for shedding light on the anguish of mental illness.
thank you, renn.