It has been forty-eight years since my Dad died. It was on that date, yesterday that the plane he was co-piloting crashed in a severe winter storm. All on board the plane died, including my dad and the state governor. I was six years old, a kindergartner in an average middle class family living in your average town. My Dad worked and my mom stayed home. Just like in the stories. My dad was also in the Air National Guard, he loved to fly and I am guessing that he liked the guard partially because it gave him the opportunity to fly. He had been called up for his yearly 2 weeks of active duty service. Part of that active duty was being on the flight crew of the governor’s airplane.
On this day, a day after his death forty-eight years ago, I was sent to school just like any other day. I don’t remember anyone in the family ever telling me that my dad had died. In my mind I just have this vision of my mother lying on the bed listening to the news on the radio and crying. It was a time when the news came first and the families of the deceased were second. I don’t know what was said on the radio but I can envision my mother first hearing that the governor’s plane was missing and that the winter storm was severe, hampering efforts to locate the airplane. Then several hour’s later the radio announced that the wreckage of the airplane had been found in the mountains near Wolf Creek. The search crews were searching for the occupants of the and had not found all of them, but it appeared that they had all died.
My sister told me that she had been at a friend’s house after school and was surprised when her friends mom told her that she was going to stay for dinner and spend the night with her friend. I am guessing that my younger brother and I ended up at another family’s house.
I still remember this day 48 years ago, being in school, playing around the piano. It was an old upright piano that sat out, away from the wall. I can still see the back of the piano and it’s exposed brown wood structure. A classmate came up to me a said “my mom said your dad died”, I just shrugged my shoulders and said “so” or “yea”. I don’t think I ever comprehended what it meant, it is like I knew that he was dead, I knew that I would never see him again, yet I don’t think anyone had actually told me that he had died, I just knew it from the events, sensed it from what was going on around me. I don’t think I wanted to face it, no adult had told me he was dead, why should I really face it and believe he was dead. I could just shrug my shoulders and say “so”. I didn’t want to face it, it was like being told something shameful about your family. It was like being told that no longer having a dad made you less than everyone else, something to be pitied and felt sorry for. I may have only been six, but damn if I was going to let anyone pity me or feel sorry for me.
I can remember standing on a flight line at the airport for a memorial ceremony. It was cold, windy and rainy/sleety. People were all dressed up, lots of military uniforms, pressed slacks with crisp pleats and shiny black shoes. At six years of age I remember seeing a lot of feet and legs. I remember my mother in a long winter wool coat, wearing a hat with white mesh netting covering here face. It was a significant day, lots of somber, serious people, some crying, everyone was dressed up. There was a twenty-one gun salute and Air National Guard jets flew over in formation. I remember somebody directing me to the back seat of a car after it was all over.
I never went to my dad’s the funeral. My brother and I spent several days at a family friends house. The first thing I remember at our house is playing outside while the house was full of guests. I am guessing that it was just after the funeral; there were family friends, neighbors and relatives inside. I was outside playing, out of the way. It was a sunny January day, not much wind, reasonably warm and not much snow on the ground. I had gone down the alleys with some of the kids from the neighborhood collecting Christmas trees that had been thrown out. We were “planting” the discarded Christmas trees in our back yard. I can remember standing on the swing set, looking at the living room window seeing all the guests inside. I was smiling, feeling proud of what I had done, I wasn’t going to let a death affect me; my life wasn’t going to change. No one told me my dad was dead, that he would never be back. It was just a new stage of life. It was like one day your dad is here and the next day he is gone, it is just life don’t worry, life goes on.
I never dwelled much on not having my dad in my life, it was really like it is just a part of life and we move forward with it. There are times when in my day dreams I would wonder if he was really dead, or wonder what kind of person was he, what was he really like?
Looking back now I think the hardest part for me was the feeling of shame, the feeling of being different or less that everyone else because I didn’t have my dad in my life. I always dreaded the question – what does your dad do, or is your dad here, where is your dad? I did not want to have to tell people that I don’t have a dad, my dad died. I hated having to tell the story of my dad’s death; I wanted to just disappear into the background. I was proud of my dad but I didn’t want to talk about him. He wasn’t my dad anymore he was gone. Not like he had up and left by choice but still, he was gone.
On this day 48 years ago when a classmate told me that my dad was dead, was my reaction of indifference because I didn’t care or was I hiding my feelings of loss, denial and shame. The loss and denial are easy to see but why shame? I think the feelings of shame were strong because I knew, now that my dad was dead, I was different from most of the other kids, I no longer had my dad and they did. How is a six year old supposed to act when he loses his father?
I think his death set how I would react to many of life’s events that were to come. I could feel loss, sadness, shame, and guilt. I could deny what I was feeling and I could hold everything inside and not let anyone know how I felt, what I thought, no matter how much it hurt. I wasn’t suppose to know, I wasn’t suppose to have these feelings, life just goes on.
Today the question for myself is how do I move forward. How do I let my feelings out, how do I balance expressing my feelings when they may hurt someone else’s feelings.
How do I express my feelings and have them respected when my feelings counter the feelings, thoughts and beliefs of others and those whom I love.
What are the real feelings of my son who was adopted, when he says he always knew he was adopted and it was no big deal to him? That is what I tend to say about my dad’s death, it was no big deal, just a part of life.
How do I express the feelings of my loss when the world tells me to just get on with it, when the world just wants to see adoption as a great and wondrous gift? I did such a good job of “getting on with it” when he was born and for many years after. Or did I do a good job, just because I didn’t talk about it, let anyone know what my real feelings and thoughts were, just because there was no one to talk about it with, no one who would listen, does that mean I really did do a good job? I don’t think so. The world seems to think that I was supposed to just be happy that there was someone else to take care of my son when I couldn’t provide for him. How does one express their grief once you wake up? How does the world think you can be a good parent to your other kids if you don’t care dearly for the child you gave up for adoption?
Right now the world is a very tiring place to be. God help me to have patience and give my guidance.
Rambling B-dad 