My dad died today. Or should I say, I found out he died today. I’m still not sure of when, or in what condition he was found. I had heard he was recently in and out of the hospital for complications associated with his addiction to fentanyl. I myself hadn’t spoken to him in over two years- I blocked his number Christmas Day 2023.
My mom texted me asking if I was busy. It’s important, she said. I’m in the midst of an emotionally messy divorce (don’t worry, more on that another time) so I was concerned enough to call her right away. She asked if I was driving; I said yes. It’s already obvious she’s crying. She told me I should pull over- oh this was BAD bad. “Is it Pippin?!” I ask- my geriatric rabbit she is taking care of for me while I’m away for school. “No, it’s your dad, honey. He died.”
I immediately think of my brothers, and how they need the eldest daughter now more than ever, while I’m out here in sunny SoCal selfishly living my beach bunnie hippie chick dreams (busting my ass as a broke FT trade school student). Shit.
And then, I think of my dad. Poor dad- he was an addict my entire life. Alcohol, since before I was born. I grew up, first watching my mother beg him to seek treatment, then eventually begging him for it myself. He could get sober, and he did a couple times, but I never once saw him try to stay sober. And then, gracious about 10 years ago now, he got hit on his little motorized scooter he drove everywhere in lieu of a car, by a woman running a red light. His BAC was about EIGHT times the legal limit. You have to laugh at how ironic that is, right?!
He went through DTs in recovery at the hospital- DTs stands for Delirium tremens, or the severest form of alcohol withdrawal. She had hit him on the left side head on. On a scooter, he was lucky to be alive. (My mother and I laughed at that irony too- how often had we prayed for his death so that we could gain the meager thousands from his life insurance policy, and he had been courting death for years by slowly pickling his liver and everything else, yet a freak accident leaves him only maimed enough to be forever disabled and further burden upon us- both emotionally and physically? Is no one else laughing? I feel like if you grew up poor you may find this more relatable.)
But not lucky enough to remain unscathed, of course. His femur was in pieces. The tibia and fibula were both shattered in multiple places. He required multiple emergency surgeries, and his entire left side was encased in a metal cage like something straight out of Hellraiser. He had wounds that required wound care. Bones would grow too fast and would need to be re-broken. It was months before he was even lucid enough to make any sense when he talked. Then, after all that long being bedridden: rehab therapy- grueling, and endless. After detoxing from alcohol, no one could blame him for taking the narcotics he was given- how could he NOT take them? We couldn’t ever imagine the amount of pain he must have been in in our wildest dreams. He took them as prescribed, and for us, that was all we needed to “forgive” him.
I put “forgive” in quotes, because forgiveness was given in varying degrees. I was cautiously optimistic, mostly outwardly to benefit my younger brothers, always feeling like I had to be the example. Inwardly, I’ve always been more of a pessimist (or, depending on who you talk to, [me *cough* it’s me *cough] a realist.), but after what I had considered at the time a successful subversion of societal expectations regarding “daddy issues” by obtaining a capable, responsible male mate, I considered my father and I to be “square”. My youngest brother, Wren, has always loudly and proudly held great hatred towards our father. Levels of hatred that I never could truly understand, as he remembers the least about him from the “before” times- BD: Before Divorce, if you will. I was always more concerned with what the effect this hatred had on Wren’s nervous system- as a fellow neurodivergent, I know how taxing it can be to harbor that level of intense feeling towards someone, let alone a feeling as negative as hatred. I haven’t talked to him yet, but I’m hoping our father’s death will give him some catharsis, honestly. I think the best case scenario for him is that this will help him move on from that hatred.
But oh, my poor sweet middle brother, Alex. The most thoughtful, passionate, sensitive Alex. (If I ever end up letting you read this, Alex, don’t be mad, you know I love every single bit of you!!) He so desperately wanted to have a father figure in his life. He let our dad into his heart over and over again more than any of us, and my dad let him down every single time. I think the only truly negative feelings I ended up harboring towards my father was how could he do this to someone as good and true and pure as Alex over and over again- his own son.
And eventually, he did what I had secretly felt like I always knew would happen, what Wren quite loudly felt like he always knew would happen, what Alex was so hopeful would never happen- he started abusing his pain meds. Taking more and more. Couldn’t go an hour without taking who knows how many milligrams of Goddess knows what. He eventually started mixing it with alcohol again. “Don’t tell mom, I don’t want her to yell at him.” Alex said, after confiding in me that my dad was visibly intoxicated at a Diamondbacks game they went to together. Eventually, that wasn’t enough, and he got his hands on fentanyl. Fucking fentanyl!! At 60-something?? So undignified. So sad.
Is now a good time to mention I tried to look up what would be considered the opposite of “manly” as I couldn’t quite put my finger on a definitive word, and besides the ugly looking and sounding “unmanly”, they are all words to describe women? Like, “effeminate”, “womanly”, “girlish”… What is going on with that? Am I going crazy or is that not the most misogynist thing I’ve ever seen? And can I never not direct any conversation on any topic towards hating men? The world may never know..
“But Lara,” you may be asking, “what about how YOU are feeling after your dad’s early and tragically avoidable death?! I know you’re using humor to cover up your inner turmoil! And I think that’s super sexy by the way, along with all your other mental illnesses! Can we make out now pleeeeease?” (Shh, I know you’re not! Let me pretend you’re obsessed with me!!)
I’m trying to come up with some philosophically astounding way to say that I’m ok right now, and I may not be ok tomorrow, and I may feel manic today and I may be bedridden tomorrow. Either way I’ll probably continue to be horny af for people I really shouldn’t be, and I’ll continue to self-prescribe ungodly amounts of THC daily for my auDHD (until I run out of my current stash, cause damn I need a T-break). And I’m coming to terms with that right now by promising myself I will write about both of those things in the near future as well.
I’m not sure if this blog is the “life hack” that the self-care/self-help/self-love millennial bate influencers promise me journaling will be. But I do think it is a very successful form of pleasing my inner child through my current hyperfixation on Y2K nostalgia. This is definitely the hardest year of my life, and it’s only April. Why not indulge that little girl inside that always wanted to be that main character, typing away to their thousands of avid fans on their gorgeous clunky blue plastic iBook, quirky and free-spirited and sexy as she overshared her life through clever banter? Your favorite manic pixie dream girl’s favorite manic pixie dream girl. With the blog named after the world’s largest rodent.
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