Darla Part 3 Dad and Death

Dad and Death

Stories should have many qualities. They should be well written, have a good plot, interesting story lines, well developed characters, descriptive scenes. There are many things that are needed to make a story good. But I think the best stories are ones that also make you laugh, make you cry, and teach you something. So the following story is not a best story. It won't make you laugh. So if your looking for a laugh, put this down and do something else. If you're ready for a good cry, keep reading.

I already talked about my fateful naming day. I hadn't even met dad, and he already had a profound effect, a rather detrimental effect, on my life. In my earliest memories of dad, he was already looking old and frail, even though he was only around 40. By 47, he was dead; I was 11, almost 12.

I was never a good sleeper, I was always up late and awake early. Dad was either still passed out, snoring loadly; or already up, already staggering through the house. I don't know how he did it, but he never missed work. He was almost never home sick, until the last year. The few times I do remember him home for more than a few days, it usually involved a vacation that I rarely enjoyed.

On weekends, he was usually out early and home late. When I was younger, around 6 to 8 years old, dad would frequently take me with him on his weekend outings. It was always a bar, usually the same one. I would hang out alone at a table in the back of the bar for hours. I couldn't stay home because mom was often working a second job on weekends, and I wasn't allowed to be home alone. Dad would be at the bar, sitting on his stool usually alone, sometimes talking to someone. Always drinking. I'd ask for a soda, and he would get me one. I'd ask for another, he would say "Not too much there, you'll float away." Then he'd drink more and I'd wonder who was really floating away.

I always felt like an unwelcomed burden when I was with dad, an unplesant task he had to do, but didn't realy like. More on that later.

I don't know why people drink too much, but using my experience in seeing people who drink too much, I wrote a little poem that I think may touch on one of the many reasons;

While at the bar with dad, I would sometimes play shuffle board, either by myself or with some old men at the bar. By the time dad stopped bringing me to the bar, I was getting pretty good at the game, or at least thought I was.

I had it easy compared to my brother and sister. Dad didn't understand Tom. Being autistic, he just wasn't like other kids. But dad didn't accept that. Tom got yelled at a lot, even had a few beatings. Didn't change Tom, except maybe sent him further into himself.

I was different too, but dad hardly noticed my differences when I was young. At least I didn't think so. I was just a silent tag along he usually ignored. I did get yelled at my fair share, but I usually ignored it, in one ear out the other. That was easy with my bad hearing. But with me being the littlest, and Tom making such a big target, I didn't get into much trouble with dad. As I said above, I felt like an inconvient burden, ignored as much as possible. Still, I thought life was pretty much useless, a waste of time.

There is one incident that shows how bad things got with dad. I'm not yet 11. I had been feeling sick for a few days. I was just getting over a bad cold from the week earlier. I frequently got sick a week or so after a cold, secondary infection I was told. The secondary infection was usually much worse then the cold.

I woke up late, usually I'm up by 5:30 AM, but today it was probably around 8:00. I always sleep more when I'm sick. My head hurts, a lot. My throat is very sore. It was very hard to get up, but I had to pee. As I'm walking through the house to the bathroom, I see the kitchen light on, I know dad's in there, already drunk. The bathroom is by mom and dad's bedroom, I see mom still in bed as I get to the bathroom door, it looks like she's still sleeping. I remember reaching for the bathroom door knob, and I remember it getting further and further away as I reached for it.

I don't remember hitting the floor, but apparently I passed out. Next thing I remember was dad, holding me up by the front of my pj's pressed against the wall. He's looking at me with red eyes. Even without my hearing aids I remember exactly what he said. "What the hell did you do to yourself this time?" he growled. He never understood my hearing problems, or anything else about me. When he wasn't ignoring me, he was the chief among the name callers, "stupid", "dumb", "idiot kid" were some of the endearing words I received from him when he saw me.

As he held me against the wall, his fist full of pj's pressed against my neck, pushing my chin up, with his other hand he grabbed each sleeve, pulling first one up past my elbow, then the other. "Where's the needle marks, where do you stick the needle you little crack whore?"

"What's he talking about," I'm thinking to myself. Then I remember about drugs, anti-drug classes in school, things I've heard about drugs, and needles, and tracks. The crack whore comment didn't fully register at the time, the full realization of what he said doesn't hit me until days later. I looked at dad, and with a feeble voice, "I don't do drugs."

"The hell you don't. Always slurring your words, getting sick, always walking around in a daze." He throws me on the floor, "Get the hell out of my site you little crack whore." He walks away, leaves the house. I know he's heading to the bar. After he's gone, mom gets up and comes over to me. I knew she could see the whole thing from bed. She bends down helps me sit up and hugs. I cry, mom tries to sooth me. I don't remember what we said, I do remember asking "Why?" and not really getting an answer.

She helps me up, I go pee, then she helps me into bed with her. She says I'm burning up. I fall asleep. I wake up in the hospital. This apparently was one of my worst times being sick. Three days in the hospital, I barely remember the first two.

I find out a few days later that I had mononucleosis, also known as the "Kissing disease". As soon as dad hears, "So your not a whore, then how the hell do you get that, you're a crack whore." He leaves again for the bar. I hear "crack whore" from him a lot for the next month or so. I'm bearly budding, I would rather give a boy a bloodly nose than let one touch me. I remember wishing him dead every time he calls me a whore. Less than a year later, he was.

---

My most lasting memories of dad were in his last year or so. A few months after my bout of mononucleosis, dad got sick, and stopped working. I was told cancer, but not really any of the details. I never found out what kind of cancer.

Every evening, he would sit in the bathroom drinking. He was no longer healthy enough to go out to the bar every day. Every 15 minutes or so, he would yell out, "Darla, get me another beer." And I would. He had mostly stopped calling me names by then. Mostly he stopped talking. Other than asking for another beer, I don't remember him saying much those last few months. He'd be sitting on the toilet, hair unkempt, salt and pepper, mostly salt by then. His face was gaunt, flushed a bit, with a long reddish beak like nose. His sallow cheeks would usually be covered with white scruff from a few days without shaving. His scrawny neck was a wrinkled motley red. The rest of him was a ghostly pale white. He would be in a dirty white undershirt, and his white briefs around his ankles. He would usually have a cigarette between two yellowed fingers in one hand, and the nearly empty can in the other. He expected the beer can to already be opened, but not before I entered the bathroom. If I opened it before I entered, he would accuse me of drinking some, I remember "drunk whore" mentioned once, so I would have to stand in front of him while I opened his beer. He would down the remnants of the old can, place the empty on top of one of the many piles of empty cans around him, and take the full one from me without a word. No thanks, just back to drinking and smoking.

Usually his bone thin legs with knobby knees would be crossed, but later in the evening, and his shining throne was nearing the end of it's daily growth, he would often be dozing, legs spread wide, his shriveled manhood dangling into his open porceline seat. Made me feel real good seeing dad like that, over and over again. Up to then, my only experience with the naked male body was seeing diapers changed on infants, or the rare young toddler running through the house with a frantic adult chasing after with diaper in hand. I've learned a bit more about what a real man looks like, and my memory of dad was not of a real man.

Many full cans entered the bathroom every day, and they didn't come back out when empty. Mom refused to touch them, and I certainly wasn't cleaning up after him.

---

Greatness! Greatness usually means being seen, having crowds, the masses of people, see you, follow you, expect things from you.

It's not that I have fear, and it's not like I dislike crowds. While I'm not fond of crowds, I don't mind being in a crowd occasionally. As long as the crowd ignored me. And while I would someday like to accomplish something great, and even have the masses see that I did something great, what frightens me is to be noticed. I hate to be in front of the crowd. Some day I hope they can see that I did something, just not that I'm actually there doing something. There are many great people out there who like, even strive, to be seen; few who actually live up to expectations.

For me, what I want is for nobody to see me.

While I know there are also other reasons, one of the reasons for wishing to be invisible probably comes from my experiences with dad. Dad was a drunk. He usually left us alone. But if he noticed us, we usually got yelled at, beat, or worse. If we made noise, broke something, drew notice to us in any way, it was usually bad. While my brother usually got the worst, I got my share.

Mom usually didn't say much, either about his drinking or about how he treated us. I believe the term for how mom acted is "enabler." Back then she also drank a lot, so I guess that made it easy for her to accept his drunkeness. A few years later, Mom's drinking stopped when she got sick. When dad got sick, I think he drank, and smoked, more.

Some days that year as dad got worse, after straight A's at school, going home and doing homework and all my chores, I'd sit up at night, in the dark, waiting for dad's next call, thinking about death, and how nice it would be to try it out. I thought a lot about the best way to kill myself. I didn't want to make work for anyone else so it had to be clean. I hated pain so it had to quick and painless. I don't know why I was so sad then, little did I suspect at that time, but things could, and did get worse. At least I thought they got worse, but that's another story I'll tell later, but I thought a lot about death, and obviously since I'm still here I didn't actually do it.

After his stroke, Dad was in the hospital a while, then he came home for a few days, and I had to help take care of him. Even though I hated him, I was the dutiful daughter, I did what I could to help. He had another stroke, was rushed to the hospital.

Mom was sad, and scared. A day after the ambulance took dad away, mom said he was in very bad shape. Even at 11, I already knew that. I went to the hospital with mom once, only saw dad a few minutes. He actually looked better than I remembered. A couple days later, mom told us he was dead.

Then the funeral and burial. I didn't cry, except a couple tears at the cemetery as the prayers ended and we were getting ready to leave. I wasn't even sure he was worth the two tears I shed, but that was it. Dad was gone, he Was my dad.

At the end, I wasn't sure I hated him, not sure I didn't love him. Mostly I didn't feel anything toward dad, the thought of him just made me numb. He was just there, and I tried not to be. When he died, I felt bad for mom, but for dad, I don't think I felt anything.

I remember seeing the death certificate, including the cause of death. I don't remember everything it said, but I do remember "multiple organ failure" and "cancer" (I think it was esophageal cancer) and "emphysema" and "stroke." It also said "heart failure" but I knew that must have been years ago.

---

Well, now that dad had been gone for a while, had the pain he has caused me ended. I thought so. But as many things in life, the unexpected happens far to frequently.

A bit over two year after dad was gone, I found an old web site he had made. I was doing a google search, checking to see if there was any family stuff out there, and I found this web site in an archive site for closed down web hosts. Right on the first page page was a picture of mom and dad.

It was a site about the family. Judging by the content of the web site, I must have been about 5 or six when it was done. Grammy, mom's mom, was still alive, and she died when I was 8. My brother Tom was a teenager. And Kara, my older sister, was about 12. Our old dog was still alive, and she died when I was 13.

So, what was so special about this web site that had a huge impact on my life.

I wasn't in it. Anywhere. No mention at all.

Mom, dad, bro, and sis. No Darla!

Tom didn't have a lot on the site. Kara had the most, several pages. Apprently she was quite the Buffy, The Vampire Slayer fan.

Where was I? Why hadn't dad included me in the web site he created about his family? I wasn't dad's biggest fan. In fact, I was pretty much glad he was gone. But he was still family to me, I would never consider leaving him out of the family. Why would he leave me out of this web site?

I was confused. After what I had been through with dad, I didn't really care about what he thought. But, totaly left out, why? I just couldn't figure it out.

My mind was filled with possibilites. Mostly, I felt dad just never accepted that this wierd, quiet girl, with various health and emotional problems, who was always getting in trouble, was worth the effort to even consider a mention as part of the family. I didn't deserve the work needed to add me to a web page. The more I thought about it, the more my dislike for dad grew. But nothing I could think of seemed enough to answer, why?

With great reluctance, I decided I needed to talk to mom about it. I wasn't looking forward to this conversation. Mom knew I really didn't like dad, and we hadn't really talked about him since he died. Dad wasn't a subject mom and I wanted to discuse, so I wasn't expecting much of an answer. I certainly wasn't expecting the answer I received.

So, with the page up on the old laptop mom was letting me use, I approached mom. She was sitting comfortably, watching one of her Sunday morning TV news shows. I sat next to her, turned the screen towards her, and asked, "Mom, why didn't dad think I was good enough to be on his web site."

Silence.

Mom turned very pale, cup of tea in her hands, not moving. Like she was frozen in time.

"Mom, you ok?" I asked.

She swallowed the mouthful of tea that was frozen in her mouth. She staired at the web site. I could tell she recognized it. She staired at it, and a tear rain down one cheak. I knew pain. I could recognize pain a mile away. Not physical pain, I could see emotional pain. A lot of it. Was it becasue she saw a picture of her and dad together? I didn't think so, this was bigger than that. That's when I knew the answer was bad.

"How did you find that?" she asked.

"Google."

"Damn." She put her tea down. Wiped the tears under both eyes now.

"Damn." She said again.

She sat quiet for a few more minutes. I was afraid to interrupt, I knew she was in deep thought. Very deep thought. About me? I was getting more frightened by the second. And the seconds ticked by forever.

Finally I said, "Mom, tell me." I wasn't sure I really wanted to know anymore, I was getting afraid of what she would say, if she would say anything.

Still silence.

"Mom, I don't know what it is, but if it's about me, I want to know." I tried to sound confident, strong, but I know I was stumbling over the words. I was shaking now. What could be so bad than it had this effect on mom?

"Put that thing down," she said pointing at the laptop. "I knew you would have to be told some day. I wasn't expecting to tell you now, but I guess now is as good as later."

I wasn't expecting what came next.

"Dad wasn't your biological father!" She said it quickly, then took a breath, pain and relief at the same time.

Now it was my turn for silence. What to you say to a line like that? What do you think? My head is always full of stuff. Stories. Fears. There is always something bouncing around in there. It was all gone. Just the word "wasn't" bouncing around. "Wasn't" was all there was. What did that mean. What did I just hear. I have bad hearing, I must have heard that wrong.

"Darla?" mom said, almost like a question. I looked at her. "Wasn't" still bouncing in my head.

"Wasn't what?" I asked. I knew my voice wasn't working right, but I knew mom understood.

"I'm sorry Darla, I didn't mean for you to find out like this." There were now lots of tears streaming down her face.

I sat a moment or two longer, thinking. Then said, "You mean he wasn't my real father?" Now my head started filling faster than I knew what to do with the thoughts. Things like, "Good, I didn't like him anyway." And, "So that's why he treated me like shit." And, "life sucks, it really sucks." There were a lot of thoughts about how much dad and I didn't get along. All the things between us. His throne, and how he made me help him build it. And then, on top of all the other questions was a new frightening question, "If dad was not dad, then who?" and quickly on top of that, "Mom, what did you do?" "What did you do with who?" I looked at mom as I thought those questions. How do you ask your mom questions like that?

I never expected that from mom. Who had she done THAT with. I couldn't think of mom doing THAT so all I could allow in my head was the word "THAT." Every time my mind started to wander to what THAT ment, it quickly returned to just the word. Mom! Unfaithful. I mean, yeah, I hated the guy, but mom! How could you cheat on him?

I know I said something, but so much was in my head, I have no idea what actually came out of my mouth.

All I really remember of the next few minutes was mom, tears running freely, saying something about being sorry. After a few minutes, my head cleared up a little. The one question my mind settled on was "Who?" "If not dad, than who?"

"No one you know." "Please don't ask." And a lot of "I'm so sorry." She wouldn't tell me. So, I'm the daughter of "No one." Yeah, that fits me. She got pretty upset when I a kept asking "Who?" So sorry or not, she wasn't telling me.

She normally drank a lot, every night, but never got real drunk. She got pretty drunk the next few days. She wouldn't talk to me. All she would say is, "You know enough, you don't need to know any more."

I never found out who is my real father. I was the daughter of "No one." In a way I was glad the dad I knew was not my real dad. But not knowing, that left a huge hole in me. Who was he, a great unknown no one! Was he so bad mom was afraid it would look worse to me than dad. Was he so bad, she was ashamed to admit how bad he was. The more questions I had, the worse I felt. Maybe my real father was much worse than dad. Most of my thoughts only made me feel worse about where I really came from.

Maybe mom just didnt't want the father to know I was his daughter. I couldn't see how that could be worse than not knowing. Was he evil, dangerous, rich, famous? I would always think the worse. Someone drunker than dad, someone on drugs, some nasty, evil person. Then I thought, was mom raped? I asked mom, she said no. But nothing else. And her "No" wasn't very convincing.

Questions. Questions. Questions. No answers. My thoughts always went to the worst possiblities.

I was the daughter of something evil. Worse than dad. I hadn't thought there was worse than dad before. Now I did. I thought about it a lot. I'm the offspring of an evil something no one!

I had to stop asking mom about it. That was when grandpa got hurt, and moved in with us. Mom made it clear, very clear, in no uncertain terms, I wasn't to say anything as long as grandpa was with us. He was not to know. EVER!!

It's been years, and she still won't tell me.

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NEXT ---> Mom Gets C's