Growing up I never imagined a life without both my mother and father in it. As a young child I imagined how my life would be. I would get married, have children and enjoy family dinners and holidays with my children's grandparents. I imagined what my parents would be like as "Grandma" and "Grandpa". So when my father died at the age of 52 it threw a wrench in my well thought out plan. I was 21 years of age and had only been married 5 short months. How could this happen? I had envisioned the future for so long and now I was trading family gatherings for a gathering of some sort with a funeral coordinator.
My dad died on a chilly day in October. Halloween to be exact. I was picking my step children up from football practice when I received the phone call that no 21 year old bride would ever expect to get. The man on the other side of the phone informed me that my father was in critical condition at St. Bernadine's hospital. I started to cry thinking how this could be happening when I was supposed to be taking my children to a harvest festival for Halloween. I pleaded with the man to give me more information. He simply told me that was the only information that he could offer and that I needed to get to the hospital immediatley. I swiftly made arrangements for the boys and proceeded to the hospital with my husband. When we arrived the receptionist led me down a white hallway that seemed to go on for miles. When we got to the end of the hallway she proceeded to lead us into a "special" waiting room for families. Growing up with a mother who worked with terminally ill children I knew what this room represented. I refused to enter. To this day I do not know how my sweet husband persuaded me to walk in. But there I found myself sitting in a cold room on an incredibly hard chair wondering if my father was alive. The doctor and his team arrived a few minutes later. Truth be told it felt like hours. He sat down and just looked at me. He was silent for a minute and I thought that considering how long he was taking to speak and the amount of people he brought with him maybe he was mute. So I asked, "Is he alive or not?" He then replied, "No Mrs. Lanphere. We did everything we could, but we could not save your father. He suffered a massive myocardial infarction." Considering my deep commitment to the television show "ER" I knew that was the medical term for a heart attack. In that moment I was hoping I was dreaming and I would wake up with a vague memory of George Clooney in a white coat wandering through a television set. But it was not a dream. It was a nightmare. A nightmare that I never imagined could be a reality. I didn't even get to say goodbye. How was I going to tell my 17 year old sister. How was I going to tell my mother, who although she was not with my father, had nearly spent 25 years with this man and that she would never see him again. I was paralyzed. Eventually I was able to move. Only by a supernatural force. My husband took me home and the next month was spent going through a lifetime of memories and mounds of paperwork. As I laid my father to rest I buried my soul.
My experience over the months that followed my father's death is personal and I have shared it with few people. Growing up my mother did the very best that she could with the rescources she was given. We lived in a home that if we were sad we were put on medication. Antidepressants were all she knew and she didnt want to see me in pain. I can't fault her for that. I had never truly navigated through a negative experience without the aide of a substance. I was not fully aware of the journey that I was about to embark on, but I knew that I wanted to truly feel it. I told my husband of my plans and that at some point I would come to him and beg him to take me to the doctor and get a prescription. I informed him that no matter how desperate I was he was to not let that happen.
My first panic attack happened while I was watching American Idol. I thought I was dying. I could hear the contestants trail off in the distance as I quite literally crawled up the stairs to our bedroom. I couldn't breath. It felt like ice was coarsing through my veins and the walls around me were closing in. Jack followed me upstairs and met me with a cool rag. He placed it on my forehead and helped me find my center. Once calm I fell asleep to have it all start over the next morning and weeks after that. I went from being a happy and carefree spirit to one who lived in constant fear of dying. I was afraid to drive and I was deathly afraid to be alone. My husband became my chauffer and whenever he left the house I went with him. This went on for months. It was hard on my husband and yet he never left my side. I became isolated and depressed. I didn't want to live. The pain and anguish was unbearable. This was no way to live. Who was going to save me from this horrible pit that I was in?
As I surrendered to the idea that I was going to live the rest of my life in between anxiety attacks something happened. I became pregnant. We weren't even trying. I was then struck with even more panic. I was in no way ready to bring a child into the hell that I was living. As I let this news of new life sink in I realized I had 2 choices. I could continue to let fear control my life or I could pull myself up by my bootstraps and work through my shit. It wasn't just about me anymore. I chose to work through my shit. For my husband, for my unborn child and for myself. My baby was just the inspiration that I needed to find myself again. She was the motivating force, but I had to do the work. I had to be the one to save myself. No one could do that for me, but me. I woke up early one morning to take my dog out. As I looked up at the sunrise I realized something extraordinary had happened. The sun had returned. As I felt the warmth of the morning I felt hopeful. I felt alive for the first time in months. I had learned something invaluable through my despair. I learned to just be. I learned to just feel. Really feel. I learned to let the grief wash over me like rain. I still had rough days, but when those days came I knew that I would be okay. My feelings were what saved me. They taught me how strong I am. They taught me to let others in and help me. I started to face my fears one by one. I realized that being alone was not something to be afraid of. In learning to be alone I found my soul. I became friends with my soul. My soul was my biggest fan.
It will be 7 years that my dad made his exit from this world and looking back over these years I can see how clearly Divine my experience was and that I had a host of angels guiding me through it all. I have learned more about faith in these years. Faith in God, faith in my angels and most importantly faith in myself. My dad is not gone. His soul is very much alive and I believe him to be my most special angel who guides me and protects me. I give great thanks for this experience. It was through my father's death that I was born. Truly born to live the life that I was meant to live. Which, in my opinion, far exceeds any vision I could have ever imagined for myself. I love you Dad.
xo,
M
This is how I will remember my Dad. Carefree and laughing. :)
