Luella's Corner
| 'Goodbye Forever' |
My dad was the most influential person in my life. I will carry him in my heart until the day that I die. The
day he died was the day I let go of that influence which had always been a part of me. So, sad to say, the
day he died I did not cry. Instead, I let out a sigh of relief.
Even as an adult, knowing that he could no longer hurt me, there was a remnant of fear that would not
leave. The worst he could do was yell at me over the phone and tell me how stupid I was. He could no
longer really hurt me. But even as an adult, as I heard those words, I felt that same paralyzing fear. He
was still, indeed, hurting me.
I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I was not sexually molested. Or I believe I was not sexually
molested. My dad had a horrendous temper and absolutely no patience. At any given moment, for
whatever reason, I would be beaten mercilessly. This would happen whether I disobeyed, if I spoke while
he was watching a TV program, if I did not do something exactly as I was told, if I spoke at the wrong time,
it could be for anything. As I was an only child and all this attention was mine. My special place, where I
would spend all my time, would be in my room. There I had a blackboard, my favorite baby doll and her
little crib. My very first memory comes at the age of three. That day is still etched in my mind. It is a
memory so vivid it could have happened five minutes ago. A little blonde girl crying as if her heart would
break while sitting in a rocking chair loving her baby doll. That day I told my little baby that I would always
be kind to her. Then I went one step further. I put my baby doll in her little crib. I stood up and that day I
took an oath all by myself in my room that I would never, ever treat my child as I was being treated. This is
the way I grew up.
My dad lived with his own hurts, his own disappointments, and although his father had died when he was
eight years old, he also had suffered severe treatment from him. It was not just the beatings themselves
that hurt. It was the hatred I saw come from his eyes. When he was angry with me I would receive silent
treatments. For months at a time he would not acknowledge me, just as if I did not even exist. I remember
begging for forgiveness, getting down on my knees in front of him sobbing. He still would not forgive me.
He would eventually lighten up as a couple of months went by and oh, how happy I was when he would
finally speak to me. I would know that forgiveness was finally on its way. I always wanted him to be proud
of me, but there was literally nothing I could do to make him happy.
My dad was a victim of his own life, of his own hurts. He was a victim of his not being able to make
friends, of his not belonging, of his not succeeding in life. He never got it that to achieve all these things, it
was he who had to change. And because he never got it, I never got it, until I was well into adulthood.
Once grown and married with my own children, I really did believe that I had escaped those terrible
bonds. Outwardly I was living life successfully and happily. I made sure I was a good mother. In fact, if I
ever had a decision that needed to be made with regard to my own children, I would think, "What would
my parents have done?" And then I would do the complete opposite. But no, I hadn't escaped those
bonds at all. That old demon had made himself comfortable in my life and I did not realize that he was my
constant companion. I had no idea that I was still living in fear. I had never let go of the fear since that day
when I was three years old. It took years of therapy to get over the anxiety and panic that hit me at the age
of 31. After working hard on myself for close to ten years, yes, I became a totally different person. But there
was still that remnant of fear. It was so deeply imbedded that it would not leave. I had learned to function
without the panic attacks. I had a new perspective of life, things were changing, new paths were opening,
and although I would do all I could to overcome my demon, when having to face my dad, I would still
cringe in fear.
He never knew it though. As far as he knew, I was my own person, doing what I believed was right without
the slightest bit of fear. That angered him terribly. One day while at work, I received a letter from him in the
morning mail. The place and timing for this letter could not have been any worse. You could say it was a
"Dear John" letter. In my case a "Dear Luella" letter. In that letter, he informed me that he and my mother
wanted nothing to do with me ever again. That I was not to write back, ever call again or have any
communication of any kind ever again. My heart broke as I read that letter. I wanted to break down and
sob. I wanted to give up. But I was at work. I had to maintain my composure. So that day I walked about
and did my duties as if a terrible illness had suddenly overtaken me. I felt as if he had full force kicked me
in the stomach. You see, even though as a child I thought I hated my dad, that I hated him so much that I
would pray that he would be in a car accident and die before he got home that night, I never really hated
my dad. I was merely very fearful of him. I actually loved him very much and I wanted so much better for
him. I felt so sorry for him. He had no friends and, except for my mother, was all alone in the world. I tried
to show him a couple of times how he could be happy but all I got in return was his full wrath.
I then went on to do the only thing I could do. I accepted this fate and went on with my life. But even then
my closest companion, this small hint of fear, still clung on to me.
For ten years, life went on as normal. Then one day, my mother called me. My dad was very ill. My dad
wanted to see me. He had Hotchkins Lymphoma and at this point would have two more months on this
earth. I went to Florida and spent a week with him in the hospital. I will never forget that week. I think that
was the finest week we ever spent together. And no, it wasn't because we got along, because he hadn't
changed. It was just because it was my dad and me and I took care of him that week, and in a very
strange way we bonded. There were times when he was lucid and himself, and there were times that he
didn't know anything. During those times that he didn't know who I was, he was the sweetest person on
earth. Those are the sweetest memories I have of my dad. We would sit together and talk, and laugh, and
visit. Then he would see little boys in the room that weren't really there, and I learned to go along with him.
And the sweetest memory I have of all, was one day when he asked me, "Who are you?" I answered, "I
am your daughter." He said, "What's your name?" I replied, "My name is Luella." A few minutes went by
and he asked me, "What is your last name?" I told him that my last name was "May." Then the sweetest
thinking expression came over his face and a little bit later he asked, "If your last name is May, then how
can you be my daughter?" I explained to him that I was now grown and married. I don't know why, but I
hold this conversation as my dearest moment with him ever.
When he was lucid, things were not the same. He was very cruel and hateful. At this point, he was
extremely weak and was not able to get up by himself. As I tried to tell him he had to wait for a nurse, he
royally told me off. His tirade started with the words, "Who do you think you are . . ." and was followed by
so many terrible ugly hurtful things. I tried to maintain my composure, but I knew that was impossible.
Tears were starting to fill my eyes and I knew I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably. As I did not want
to cause a scene, I slowly got up and closed the door to his room. I then, for once in my life, let it all out in
front of my dad. Uncontrollably sobbing, I just yelled at him, "I DO THESE THINGS BECAUSE I LOVE
YOU!" and continued my uncontrollable sobbing. Everything changed at that moment, his next words
were, "Honey Bunch, Honey Bunch, I was just kidding. Don't take it seriously." This was the closest he
ever came to telling me that he loved me. For the rest of the day, every time a doctor or nurse came in, in a
jovial mood he would tell them how silly I was and how I took his little teasing so personally. This was
quite different.
I stayed with my dad for a whole week. I never left his side. I slept in the same room with him. This gave
my mom a chance to go home and get some much needed rest. Then, the moment came when I had to
go back home. That was a bittersweet moment. My dad cried. This is the very first time I had seen him cry.
I cried. I told him I would be back. He looked straight in my eyes and said, "No. This is goodbye forever."
Again, I felt that same full force kick in my stomach that I had felt so many years before.
I never intended that moment to be "Goodbye Forever." I had every intention of seeing him one last time
before he died. But he knew. As he was nearing the very end of his life, my mother called. I immediately
left work and made arrangements to go see my dad, one last time. One last time when we could be
friends. One last time when I could tell him "I love you" and maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that he
loved me. I raced to the house, packed a few things to head for the airport. A friend called to give me her
condolences. When I hung up I saw that I had a voicemail. It was a nurse at the hospital. She wanted me
to call her back. I then knew that my dad had been right. I had already said goodbye to him, forever. After
recovering again from that all too familiar full force kick in the stomach, I called the nurse back. Yes, my
dad had passed away. And I do so hope that wherever he is, he is much happier and so much more
fulfilled than he had been on this earth. I talked to my mother and told her to hang on, that I would be there
in five hours.
My dad's funeral reflected his life. Have you ever given a party to which no guests attended? This was the
viewing and funeral that no one attended. There he was laying in his casket. To my surprise, he had the
sweetest look on his face, as a baby sleeping. I turned around and looked behind me. This was one of
those moments that I needed to experience, to feel, to always remember. I saw a room with empty chairs.
I turned around and let out a deep sigh. Out loud I said to him. "Look, this is it. This is your life." And then I
looked at his dead body that looked ever so sweet. How, I have no idea. And as I stood looking at him, I
said, "It is finished." I turned around, took my mother's hand and walked away forever. We walked to our
car, as if walking into the sunset in one of those wonderful old time movies. My mother and I would be
starting our own lives together.
As we walked towards this new life, I noticed that I was much lighter. My load wasn't quite as heavy as
before. That fearful companion of mine had also left my side. It had also said goodbye forever. I had finally
been set free.
day he died was the day I let go of that influence which had always been a part of me. So, sad to say, the
day he died I did not cry. Instead, I let out a sigh of relief.
Even as an adult, knowing that he could no longer hurt me, there was a remnant of fear that would not
leave. The worst he could do was yell at me over the phone and tell me how stupid I was. He could no
longer really hurt me. But even as an adult, as I heard those words, I felt that same paralyzing fear. He
was still, indeed, hurting me.
I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I was not sexually molested. Or I believe I was not sexually
molested. My dad had a horrendous temper and absolutely no patience. At any given moment, for
whatever reason, I would be beaten mercilessly. This would happen whether I disobeyed, if I spoke while
he was watching a TV program, if I did not do something exactly as I was told, if I spoke at the wrong time,
it could be for anything. As I was an only child and all this attention was mine. My special place, where I
would spend all my time, would be in my room. There I had a blackboard, my favorite baby doll and her
little crib. My very first memory comes at the age of three. That day is still etched in my mind. It is a
memory so vivid it could have happened five minutes ago. A little blonde girl crying as if her heart would
break while sitting in a rocking chair loving her baby doll. That day I told my little baby that I would always
be kind to her. Then I went one step further. I put my baby doll in her little crib. I stood up and that day I
took an oath all by myself in my room that I would never, ever treat my child as I was being treated. This is
the way I grew up.
My dad lived with his own hurts, his own disappointments, and although his father had died when he was
eight years old, he also had suffered severe treatment from him. It was not just the beatings themselves
that hurt. It was the hatred I saw come from his eyes. When he was angry with me I would receive silent
treatments. For months at a time he would not acknowledge me, just as if I did not even exist. I remember
begging for forgiveness, getting down on my knees in front of him sobbing. He still would not forgive me.
He would eventually lighten up as a couple of months went by and oh, how happy I was when he would
finally speak to me. I would know that forgiveness was finally on its way. I always wanted him to be proud
of me, but there was literally nothing I could do to make him happy.
My dad was a victim of his own life, of his own hurts. He was a victim of his not being able to make
friends, of his not belonging, of his not succeeding in life. He never got it that to achieve all these things, it
was he who had to change. And because he never got it, I never got it, until I was well into adulthood.
Once grown and married with my own children, I really did believe that I had escaped those terrible
bonds. Outwardly I was living life successfully and happily. I made sure I was a good mother. In fact, if I
ever had a decision that needed to be made with regard to my own children, I would think, "What would
my parents have done?" And then I would do the complete opposite. But no, I hadn't escaped those
bonds at all. That old demon had made himself comfortable in my life and I did not realize that he was my
constant companion. I had no idea that I was still living in fear. I had never let go of the fear since that day
when I was three years old. It took years of therapy to get over the anxiety and panic that hit me at the age
of 31. After working hard on myself for close to ten years, yes, I became a totally different person. But there
was still that remnant of fear. It was so deeply imbedded that it would not leave. I had learned to function
without the panic attacks. I had a new perspective of life, things were changing, new paths were opening,
and although I would do all I could to overcome my demon, when having to face my dad, I would still
cringe in fear.
He never knew it though. As far as he knew, I was my own person, doing what I believed was right without
the slightest bit of fear. That angered him terribly. One day while at work, I received a letter from him in the
morning mail. The place and timing for this letter could not have been any worse. You could say it was a
"Dear John" letter. In my case a "Dear Luella" letter. In that letter, he informed me that he and my mother
wanted nothing to do with me ever again. That I was not to write back, ever call again or have any
communication of any kind ever again. My heart broke as I read that letter. I wanted to break down and
sob. I wanted to give up. But I was at work. I had to maintain my composure. So that day I walked about
and did my duties as if a terrible illness had suddenly overtaken me. I felt as if he had full force kicked me
in the stomach. You see, even though as a child I thought I hated my dad, that I hated him so much that I
would pray that he would be in a car accident and die before he got home that night, I never really hated
my dad. I was merely very fearful of him. I actually loved him very much and I wanted so much better for
him. I felt so sorry for him. He had no friends and, except for my mother, was all alone in the world. I tried
to show him a couple of times how he could be happy but all I got in return was his full wrath.
I then went on to do the only thing I could do. I accepted this fate and went on with my life. But even then
my closest companion, this small hint of fear, still clung on to me.
For ten years, life went on as normal. Then one day, my mother called me. My dad was very ill. My dad
wanted to see me. He had Hotchkins Lymphoma and at this point would have two more months on this
earth. I went to Florida and spent a week with him in the hospital. I will never forget that week. I think that
was the finest week we ever spent together. And no, it wasn't because we got along, because he hadn't
changed. It was just because it was my dad and me and I took care of him that week, and in a very
strange way we bonded. There were times when he was lucid and himself, and there were times that he
didn't know anything. During those times that he didn't know who I was, he was the sweetest person on
earth. Those are the sweetest memories I have of my dad. We would sit together and talk, and laugh, and
visit. Then he would see little boys in the room that weren't really there, and I learned to go along with him.
And the sweetest memory I have of all, was one day when he asked me, "Who are you?" I answered, "I
am your daughter." He said, "What's your name?" I replied, "My name is Luella." A few minutes went by
and he asked me, "What is your last name?" I told him that my last name was "May." Then the sweetest
thinking expression came over his face and a little bit later he asked, "If your last name is May, then how
can you be my daughter?" I explained to him that I was now grown and married. I don't know why, but I
hold this conversation as my dearest moment with him ever.
When he was lucid, things were not the same. He was very cruel and hateful. At this point, he was
extremely weak and was not able to get up by himself. As I tried to tell him he had to wait for a nurse, he
royally told me off. His tirade started with the words, "Who do you think you are . . ." and was followed by
so many terrible ugly hurtful things. I tried to maintain my composure, but I knew that was impossible.
Tears were starting to fill my eyes and I knew I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably. As I did not want
to cause a scene, I slowly got up and closed the door to his room. I then, for once in my life, let it all out in
front of my dad. Uncontrollably sobbing, I just yelled at him, "I DO THESE THINGS BECAUSE I LOVE
YOU!" and continued my uncontrollable sobbing. Everything changed at that moment, his next words
were, "Honey Bunch, Honey Bunch, I was just kidding. Don't take it seriously." This was the closest he
ever came to telling me that he loved me. For the rest of the day, every time a doctor or nurse came in, in a
jovial mood he would tell them how silly I was and how I took his little teasing so personally. This was
quite different.
I stayed with my dad for a whole week. I never left his side. I slept in the same room with him. This gave
my mom a chance to go home and get some much needed rest. Then, the moment came when I had to
go back home. That was a bittersweet moment. My dad cried. This is the very first time I had seen him cry.
I cried. I told him I would be back. He looked straight in my eyes and said, "No. This is goodbye forever."
Again, I felt that same full force kick in my stomach that I had felt so many years before.
I never intended that moment to be "Goodbye Forever." I had every intention of seeing him one last time
before he died. But he knew. As he was nearing the very end of his life, my mother called. I immediately
left work and made arrangements to go see my dad, one last time. One last time when we could be
friends. One last time when I could tell him "I love you" and maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that he
loved me. I raced to the house, packed a few things to head for the airport. A friend called to give me her
condolences. When I hung up I saw that I had a voicemail. It was a nurse at the hospital. She wanted me
to call her back. I then knew that my dad had been right. I had already said goodbye to him, forever. After
recovering again from that all too familiar full force kick in the stomach, I called the nurse back. Yes, my
dad had passed away. And I do so hope that wherever he is, he is much happier and so much more
fulfilled than he had been on this earth. I talked to my mother and told her to hang on, that I would be there
in five hours.
My dad's funeral reflected his life. Have you ever given a party to which no guests attended? This was the
viewing and funeral that no one attended. There he was laying in his casket. To my surprise, he had the
sweetest look on his face, as a baby sleeping. I turned around and looked behind me. This was one of
those moments that I needed to experience, to feel, to always remember. I saw a room with empty chairs.
I turned around and let out a deep sigh. Out loud I said to him. "Look, this is it. This is your life." And then I
looked at his dead body that looked ever so sweet. How, I have no idea. And as I stood looking at him, I
said, "It is finished." I turned around, took my mother's hand and walked away forever. We walked to our
car, as if walking into the sunset in one of those wonderful old time movies. My mother and I would be
starting our own lives together.
As we walked towards this new life, I noticed that I was much lighter. My load wasn't quite as heavy as
before. That fearful companion of mine had also left my side. It had also said goodbye forever. I had finally
been set free.
| By Luella May |
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