Part 2 of 2 After My Father’s April Fool’s Day Suicide

This half of my story begins when my family retrieved me from my second grade classroom after my father took his life. Silence was too golden and unsettling..

The car ride was silent, and no one told me what had happened or why we were going to my grandmother’s instead of home. When we arrived, my young immature aunt whisked me to a back bedroom so the adults could talk. I was crying, but she seemed angry that I saw she had also been crying.

My mother and my grandfather were missing. I thought I saw a strange man, a doctor, in another bedroom with my mother. Later I learned that my grandfather was with the authorities at the suicide scene.

Meanwhile, I was led outdoors to the family standing on the steps with a handsome state trooper. Apparently rather than telling me indoors what the crisis was, the family thought Trooper Woodley would do better. Go figure.

I like the Trooper’s uniform and kind manner of taking, but I did not understand his cryptic message as he knelt on one knee.

“Sweetheart, I have some bad news. Your daddy won’t be back. He was sick. He’s gone to a better world. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry.” What did that mean? I started crying again and couldn’t stop.

My aunt took me back inside, and when I couldn’t stop crying —she slapped me as if to say: “Snap out of it.” No one had ever slapped me ever. I stopped crying and asked for my mother. All I was told was she’s sick, don’t bother her. I cried, and my uncle came in for a hug, which was better than a slap.

My grandparents’ house was not kid-friendly, especially with my mother in bed (with sedatives I learned when I was older). That night and the following day are a blur of me playing outdoors alone, people I didn’t know going in and out. I did not know my father committed suicide, nor would I have known the word. You may not believe this, but I didn’t know the story of April 1st for a few years later. No one wanted to talk about it—not family, teachers or friends.

My daddy’s disappearance and the reality of his death however hit hard. My mother was not in condition to go to the viewing or the funeral the third day. My stupid family thought an open coffin would tell me he was dead I guess. It was awful. Then at the funeral since my father was a Navy vet, an American flag was handed to my grandmother while I cried. I had never been to a real funeral which made this one awful and unforgettable

Photos off the coast of Belfast, left, North Atlantic WWII

.From April 1 until school started in September, my mother and I stayed at my grandmother’s because my mother was not ready to return to the bedroom where suicide occurred. Who could blame her? My uncle and grandfather re-painted the room and tried to make it look different, but it was the same room.

Whether I lived at my house or my grandparents’ , I stayed outdoors hiking and playing most of spring-summer-fall and spent winter reading, studying, painting, and crafting while my sweet mother grieved and tried to get on with doing duties of both parents. She began smoking a lot, and I spent more time outdoors.

I don’t think anyone knew exactly why my Daddy took his life, but he was a WWII vet just laid off from a great job in a local chemical plant. Who knows why he chose to leave his adoring young wife and child? I still don’t, but depression is often heredity and his family was riddled with it I heard.

Mom hid her grief when she could, and we both found comfort in nature and animals. She was my everything, and we became more like sisters as time passed. She never re-married though she had a couple of offers. All she wanted for me to be happy, get educated, and graduate from college so could teach. That I did.

A final note. When my father died, I noted my mother began smoking. She died at age 48 after lung cancer surgery followed by heart failure in ICU. I am fortunate to have had her with me until then. I have outlived both my parents, and sometimes I feel like I’m an orphan except for my loving husband and dog. Yet, on walks listening to Rod Stewart’s song “Forever Young” , I’m so very grateful that I can only remember life with them as young parents. They are forever young to me.

Below is Part I if you missed it. Thank you for reading. Come back anytime!