Without my Daddy

Catch ya later

Today I woke up anxious. I hate waking up that way. I open my eyes and it feels like something is wrong. Something bad has happened. I did something wrong. I’m going to fail. I don’t know where these thoughts come from, but somehow these emotions feel like leftovers – whispers of the me I used to be. They are like the sludge at the bottom of my coffee cup at the end of the day. Those thoughts and feelings are the ones that sank to the bottom, and something about being asleep lowers me into it somehow.

I don’t know. I’m not describing it very well. But I hate when I wake up and immediately feel anxious – because it reminds me of the morning after election day. It reminds me of the mornings after I left my marriage. It reminds me of waking up and remembering that someone I love is dead.

My dad is dead. My daddy died at age 52, when I was 25 years old. He was not a perfect man – no one is – and I loved him so very much. The older I got, the closer we got. I would fly home to Illinois for a visit from Oregon, and we would go to the local pub where he and all the other night owls and swing shift workers would congregate. He’d buy me a beer, we’d smoke a cigarette or two, we’d play pool. He introduced me to his friends there, which was pretty much everyone. He was a well-known and well-loved regular at Bert’s Tap, and he was as proud of me as I was of him. It didn’t matter to him whether I was straight or gay, presenting butch or femme. He didn’t care. He loved me, and the memories of hanging out with him are some of my favorites.

The last time I saw my dad I was back home for a visit. A few months earlier his younger brother had died. Richard had been in the hospital in a touch-and-go state for months. Almost dying, then living, then his wife and kids would get called to come, death was imminent, then he’d keep living.

Daddy and I were in the car, maybe even heading to the airport for my trip back to Portland. I asked him “How are you doing? How was it for you, your brother dying?”

“It was awful,” he said. “He wasn’t even the same man. I just watched him waste away – I hardly recognized him.” His face was somber, his blue eyes full of tears. (That’s one of the things I always loved about my daddy – he wasn’t afraid to let tears well up if he was moved.)

“I’ll tell you though, I don’t ever want to do that to your mom and you girls,” he said. “When I die, I wanna do it quick and get it over with. I don’t want to linger.”

At the airport he hung out with me – back then anyone could go to the gates, to wait with someone leaving, or to wait for someone arriving. He stayed with me – what we chatted about I don’t recall. When it was time to get in line to board, he hugged me tightly.

“Good to see you, kiddo. We’ll catch you later.” (“Catch you later” was my dad’s goodbye - so much so that we had it put on his headstone - much to the chagrin of our more conservative relatives).

I gave him a final squeeze and a kiss, and took my place in line. He remained, hands in pockets, just watching me with that loving look. I turned back to look at him and I could see he was tearing up, and they were starting to overflow. He smiled bravely, like this was the last time we’d see each other.

“It’s okay, daddy. I’ll see you later. I’ll be back.” I felt like I needed to comfort him.

He pressed his lips together in a conciliatory smile and nodded, and I stepped forward, presented my ticket, and into the jetway without looking back again.

That was the last time I saw him.

On father’s day I called and spoke to him briefly, niceties and “what are you doing today?” and “I miss you… I love you… happy father’s day”. And that was it. That was June 21, 1992.

On June 26 I came home from work, happy it was Friday, ready for the weekend. It was a really wonderful time in my life. I had met a woman who I had fallen head over heels for, so I was alive with new love excitement. She had left town for the weekend, though, so I was on my own. I put my 5-CD changer (very high-tech! My pride and joy!) on random play, cranked up the volume, and got into the shower.

The first song that came on was “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” – a song that my dad just loved. The music video was silly and fun, with Bobby McFerrin goofing around with Robin Williams and Bill Irwin, and it cracked my dad up. So of course my dad popped into my head as the song was playing, and I sang along, just so fucking happy with life.

I made myself some dinner and curled up on my futon to watch the new Star Trek Next Gen episode. I remember I was not digging it very much – for years I thought that it must have been a Worf episode (I didn’t care for the Klingon episodes) but thanks to modern technology I now know it was “Time’s Arrow – Part II” which is an episode where the gang goes back in time, Guinan is living there, and she’s friends with Mark Twain. I never liked the time travel episodes, and this one was particularly grating as the actor playing Mark Twain depicted him as the most annoying human ever. Everyone in my life knew, though, not to interrupt me when my show was on, so when the phone rang, although I was tempted to answer it “WHO IS CALLING ME DURING STAR TREK?!!”, I didn’t care that much. Because the episode was irking me.

It was my mom. She was crying.

“Mom, what happened?!”

“Honey… Daddy is dead…”

“Whose daddy? MY daddy?!” I was thoroughly confused, and then I was utterly and completely broken.

He’d been walking home from getting tickets to the fish fry. It was Friendship Festival time – there was a big old carnival and booths and performances and parades – a very popular annual event. Mom was already at the festival when my dad crossed the street, then stopped on the sidewalk, put his hand on his chest, looking puzzled, then collapsed right there, dead instantaneously. They didn’t know how or why, just that he died immediately of whatever it was.

The following hours were a nightmare. I called my best friend who lived about a mile away and she biked over immediately. She made my flight arrangements while I lost my mind, sitting on my futon, my life shattered. I got ahold of an ex-boyfriend to give me a ride to the airport – he was the only person I knew besides my new girlfriend who had a car. He was reluctant and uncomfortable, but I will always be grateful to him for the ride. In between Sarah going home and Kevin arriving, I realized that my mom had probably not called Bert’s Tap to tell them. She never approved of his “drinking buddies”, or his going to the pub most nights after work – but that’s another story. Suffice it to say it was doubtful she had thought about it or would even care enough to call.

So I called the operator and got the number, and then called Bert’s. I could hear the usual noise – it was evening – people talking, music, pool balls clacking against each other. I told the man who answered who I was, and that my dad had died. “Oh my god,” he said. I could hear someone ask him “what’s wrong?”

“Dave Wheeler died,” he said, and the place went silent from there out, a ripple of shock becoming a tsunami of shock. “Thanks for letting us know,” he finally said. When I hung up I started weeping anew.

When I arrived in Illinois after the longest middle of the night flight ever, sobbing the entire time, my weary sisters – so young! Amy was 21! Wendy was about to turn 19! – picked me up at the airport. They were grey with exhaustion and grief. They met me at the gate and we held each other in a tight circle, weeping. A long drive back to my hometown, and they went to bed – in shock and bone tired.

Meanwhile, I was still on Oregon time, and I was wide awake and completely lost. So I walked to Bert’s Tap.

I will never forget walking in the door that night. The place was packed, and although the usual sounds were there, the vibe was subdued, the energy heavy. I stepped inside and a few people turned to look at me. When they saw it was me… it’s been 33 years and I still cry, thinking about it.

When they saw me, someone said “It’s Dave’s daughter”, and one by one they fell silent, their faces full of love and sorrow and concern, and they parted to create a path to the bar, touching me as I walked through, murmuring their regret and sadness. I got to the bar, and I was enveloped in love. Let us buy you a beer. How are you holding up? We are so sorry. We loved your dad. He was so proud of you. We can’t believe he’s gone. We are so sorry.

These were my dad’s people, and they knew him and loved him as much as I did. Bert told me a story about my dad coming in after another long shift as the night custodian at the local middle school, and saying “Bert, ask me how I am.”

Bert had said, “How are ya, Dave?” to which my dad had taken from his pocket a piece from a pencil sharpener that had broken – the handle you turn. He spun it like a New Year’s Even noisemaker and said “I’m a little cranky.”

Just telling the story made the people around me laugh. Bert turned and opened his cash register. He turned back and handed the crank to me – he had kept it. One by one, people started sharing similar stories about my dad. He was a silly, playful man, and he loved little practical jokes and just hijinks in general. He also wrote great epic poems for just about every occasion, and most of the core group had gotten at least one poem or trinket from him over the years. “I still have mine!” they would say, and leave the bar to go fetch whatever it was, to bring to me, to show me right then and there that my dad was, and always would be – alive in their hearts.

I felt so loved, bathed in their love for my dad. Tears turned to laughter as more and more items and stories surfaced.

So, yeah. I loved my dad. He was a remarkable man. And he had died just as he’d wanted – suddenly. No lingering. Just… gone.

Knowing that he had looked puzzled in that moment has always made me wonder what his last thought was, and in what words did it form? I think about it a lot.

Over the next few months, I pieced together the timeline, and realized he died at just about the time I was singing along to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” and thinking about him. So I know that whether I was a conscious thought or not, he took the time to pop in and let me know he loved me, that he was okay, and I that I would be okay. Don’t worry, be happy was his final message to me.

But here’s the thing: he left me before he could teach me stuff. Like how to drive. Like how to change a tire. He was a handy guy, a decent carpenter, a brilliant chess player, an extremely gifted calligrapher and sign painter. I’m not saying I didn’t learn a lot from him – I did. He was a very make-do, MacGyver kinda guy, and I’m proud to say I inherited a lot of that ethic. Still, I needed him, and he was gone. It’s been 33 years and I still sometimes think I should call him and tell him stuff, or ask him something. He sometimes visits me in my dreams, and lately he shows up in my cannabis-induced 5D travels. I love seeing him, don’t get me wrong. Feeling his presence is wonderful, as anyone who has similar experiences will tell you. It’s not the same, though, when you just need your dad for something.

This morning my uneasiness and anxiety was coalescing around this travel trailer trip I’m embarking on. My dad would have inherently known how to do all the stuff you have to know how to do. Like, in what order do you hook up the water? Like, how do you even hitch the thing up? Like, how do you figure out… all of it? I would have called him. “To tell you the truth I’m getting a little stressed out,” I’d say. He’d be silent for a moment, then he’d probably say, “Well, you’ll just have to figure it out as you go. Just take it one step at a time.” Probably. Something like that.

It’s hard. I can’t call, I can’t ask. I mean, I’m 58 now, and he’d be 85, but I’ll bet you he’d still know. I bet he’d offer to fly out to help. I bet he would be impressed that I was gonna do this on my own: he would probably say “You can do it, Snicklefritz!”.

And I know I can. I’ve done so, so many things - hard things, grown-up things - since he died. This one feels different somehow. Maybe because I’m starting from here, the place where I was born. Maybe it’s because it’s the kind of thing I know he’d love - he liked having small spaces all his own. Maybe it’s because it’s the kind of thing I really wish I had a dad for. It’s the kind of thing you need a dad for.

Still, I can feel him with me. I can see his smile, his blue blue eyes, his amusement, his tears. I know he would be excited for me.

I know he would be proud.

Catch ya later, Daddy.

(Image is myself at age 24, at the height of my Lesbian days, grinning broadly while standing next to my Daddy, who has his arm wrapped around me, looking like he’s only pretending to be serious, and is actually about to pull a prank. I look so much like him now - I even have that deep crease between my eyebrows like he has here! I don’t have a beard, though. LOL.)