Lightning and Rainbows

Dad stood under the young Birch tree in the backyard, a place he frequented during thunderstorms in 1969. Each time he did, my grandmother, grandfather, Mom, Uncle Eddie, and I huddled together in the dining room window to watch him. Sometimes he’d gaze at us, but more often than not, his back was to us, looking off into the distance as though trying to make a deal with an entity only he could see. When I asked my family why he stood outside—I wasn’t allowed outside in storms—they made light of it by claiming he loved them. I thought he was brave and invincible.

No one tried to stop him. They understood and, in some small way, wished he got what he wanted. At seven-years-old, I was too young to make the connection between his “love” of thunderstorms and his illness. Forty-three years later, as I was going through family photos, it became clear to me.

Around the age of twenty-five, doctors told Dad he had a rare heart condition. His prognosis was simple—he was going to die. It could be a few years to just months, but they couldn’t be certain. On the days he stood under the tree in our backyard, he prayed for a quick death. He would rather die of a lightning strike than a slow death by heart disease.

It was common in the 1960s for extended families to live together. Mom, Dad, and I lived with my grandparents, great-grandmother, and Uncle Eddie (Dad’s brother). In addition, four generations of relatives lived on each side of us. It wasn’t unusual for an aunt, uncle, or cousin to go in and out of the hospital. It was part of our lives.

My grandfather, Poppy, was diagnosed with emphysema and was frequently in the hospital. When he came home, I played with the plastic medicine cups he brought for me. Sometimes he brought four or five, now and then a paper lunch bag full. Other than toys, they held no significance to me. Dad never brought his home. He didn’t want to draw attention to the fact he’d been sick.

In the last year of his life my father couldn’t work. My grandparents bought a pool table and put it in the basement. He used the riding lawn mower to mow the lawn, because it was something productive he could do with little effort. As the end of his life drew closer in the winter of 1969, he sat in the living room with his brother and their friends, drank beer, and watched football.

I don’t remember the day he went into the hospital, but I remember the evening I found out he was never coming home. I was playing with Matchbox cars on the floor in the living room. My playtime was cut short when family and friends walked into our dining room, every one of them crying. I knew Dad was in the hospital, but he wasn’t with them. Something bad happened. Everyone was talking at the same time between tears, so it was difficult to hear above the noise. I drove my little car into the dining room knowing no one would notice me and got closer to Nanny, my grandmother. When I heard her say, “I can’t believe he’s gone,” I knew then, and screamed, “Daddy’s dead.” It’s all I remember from that night. November 7th, 1969 was the most painful day of my life.

I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral because they thought it would traumatize me even more. Days later when things began to settle down, depression lay its dark hand on my head. I sat on the living room couch crying so hard it was difficult to catch my breath. When my tears would dry up, it was a short matter of time before they’d start flowing again. No one knew that, while I was staring at the wall in front of me, I was wishing with all my heart Daddy would walk through it and tell me it was a just a bad dream. I felt anguish in every waking moment. I wanted to be left alone.

A week later, I was back at school. I suffered panic attacks in the classroom and on the playground. Each time, Nanny came and took me home. After several months, the depression and attacks didn’t lessen, so she used a different approach. She told me God needed my dad more than I did, and that’s why He took him. My father was my world, and I felt nobody had the right to take him from me. I know it was heartbreaking for her. She lost her oldest son and had to deal with my grief at the same time, but Nanny did her best to keep my head above water. Maybe in some small way I helped her through her grief.

A few years after Dad passed away, Mom decided it was time to move out of my grandparents’ house. She wanted to start a new life, and knew if we continued to live there, she’d never be able to. It was a difficult transition for me. We lived with my grandparents for nine years, and the comfort of my family surrounded me at all times. I didn’t want to leave. I rebelled, cried, and yelled, because I felt I was losing family again. As a compromise, Mom rented an apartment in the same town as Nanny and Poppy, and I was able to see them frequently.

Six months after we moved, she introduced me to a man she met at her work. When she told me they were getting married within the year, my heart did flip-flops. I was going to have a dad again! As excited as I was I didn’t realize it was going to be another difficult transition for me.

We moved into a house as a new family, but life abruptly changed. I never had so many rules to follow. Chores, a regular bedtime, and permission to leave our yard with an explanation of where I was going became a requirement. At sixteen I wasn’t permitted to have a driver’s license, because they worried too much about me getting into an accident. My stepfather was routine and strict in his ways and I wasn’t familiar with that sort of lifestyle.

However, he was always fair and listened to what I had to say. There were many positive changes. I received an allowance, hung out at friend’s houses, and took guitar lessons. We went camping, traveled to historic sites, and visited family in New Jersey. Because my teeth were crooked, I got braces. We moved to another part of New York during my eighth grade year. The first day in gym class the teacher showed us the gym suit we had to wear. It was sleeveless, and I was horrified. I had a large patch of freckles on my arm, and whenever kids saw it, they would make fun of me. When it came time to explain why I wouldn't wear it to my stepfather, I thought he’d be angry with me. Instead, he took me to a plastic surgeon to have it removed.

I flourished under his care. My bouts of depression began to lift and the panic attacks melted away. He was good for me and, even at a young age, I knew it. He treated me as he would his own child and became my father in every way. Eventually, we became very close. I consider him a mentor and a life-long friend. He was a godsend.

Still yet, a random memory of the dad I loved in my youth and to this day drifts out, and I embrace it. I simply wish I could remember more of him.