For “Daddy’s girls” who mourn… on Father’s Day

My mom and dad holding me, 1955.

My dad died one week after his birthday in July 1988. One month after Father’s Day. He had barely been able to stay alert for the small “party” my mom and I had for him that Father’s Day. By the time his birthday rolled around, he had finally, but finally allowed hospice to put him on a morphine drip. There was no birthday party the year he turned fifty-seven.

Before then, he’d refused, stubbornly believing it was possible the good people at M.D. Anderson would find a cure for his very rare form of kidney cancer. If they perchance did so, he didn’t want to go through withdrawal. Seriously, that was his thinking, the reason he refused pain meds for so long.

He also wanted to be “of sound mind,” aware of people and events around him. It was worth the pain (to him) to hold fast to memories, to have final conversations with friends and family and colleagues who made one last 90-mile trip from Houston to Round Top to see him.

Those last three weeks between birthday and morphine, my mother made endless pots of coffee and baked dozens of pies, for these visitors who sat with “Johnny” one last time. Colleagues reminisced about pranks he’d pulled on them, projects they were working on.

My dad handed off his OPEC speech on gas storage in underground salt domes to friend Steve, who steadfastly believed my dad would recover before January 1989 and give the speech in Geneva himself. Like my father, Steve believed in protecting the environment; their discussions centered on that issue. But my father also made Barbara the energy writer promise to keep holding Ken Lay’s feet to the fire in the press. While gritting his teeth, he talked over June results of a Lower Colorado River Authority analysis with an engineer.

When his mother and very-ill Aunt WeeWee made the journey to hold his hand, he didn’t tell them not to cry. They let it all hang out, ugly sobs that declared the unconditional love he’d known from them as he grew up, married, and raised a family. He asked my mom’s forgiveness one last time for pain he had caused her throughout almost thirty-five years of marriage. She too made things right. No anger, no walls, all whole.

When it was my turn, he told me he had no regrets for his life. Warts and all, he had lived it as it had been lived. No regrets. However, he made me promise on everything holy that I would protect my mom, his mother, and WeeWee from the cousins who had done them so much harm. I experienced firsthand one year later when WeeWee died why he insisted. I, Johnny’s daughter, dug my heels in and made those cousins fear my wrath, Johnny’s wrath.

Right before he agreed to that morphine drip, he did one more thing that I never forgot, the thing that made my mother cry more than his death would. He somehow got himself up off that bed, struggled outside, and changed the oil in all three cars. And ran a quick overhaul of the Johnson motor for our little fishing boat so my mom could sell it if she chose.

Then he laid himself down, accepted those pain meds, and prepared to die. He told my mother, “That’s one less thing for you to worry about.”

One week later, I got the dreaded call from my mother around 10 p.m.

Over the next year, we learned how to grieve imperfectly. We also discerned who among cousins and friends loved that hard sort of love that shows up in the gap. My Lebanese neighbor and BFF Mike went with me every two to three weeks to handle chores that were beyond my mom’s abilities, although Texas fire ants stumped even him.

Steve who gave that OPEC speech in my dad’s memory also visited often. He helped build an extension to the chicken coop and made phone calls to my dad’s clients. My dad had a retainer agreement with just about everyone who continued to do business with Enron. They’d run Enron contracts by my father since no one trusted Ken Lay. Steve somehow convinced them to pay those retainers through August. He did the work on behalf of his friend, my father.

Oh, and Barbara ensured that his half-page obituary in the Houston Chronicle stated that he had worked for Houston Natural Gas. Nary a peep about Enron and his battle with Ken Lay. She would later do the same for the other “old lions.”

Uncle T.A. (photo) would call and ask his little sister what he could bring or do. Often they’d just clean the fish tank, weed the flower beds, and talk about old times. What Mama needed.

Gradually, my mom and I survived the worst of the waves of grief, thanks to unforgettable people who didn’t wait to be asked, but showed up with shovels or paperwork or cleaning supplies. Grief has a funny way of showing us humans its silver linings when tears are wrapped in memories of strong, enduring love. Tearful hugs could turn into laughter in a heartbeat when someone recounted a practical joke Johnny had played on them. Everyone had at least a dozen of those stories to share. Along with the thrill of punking him right back.

Therefore eleven months after his death, I thought everything was fine. I didn’t cry when I’d see a man flip his tie over his shoulder to eat spaghetti, as my dad had done. I could call his business partners for advice on a task and not dissolve into tears. I could even see a two-toned blue Caprice Classic on the Katy Freeway and not sob the rest of the way home.

That two-toned blue Caprice Classic was one of the Johnny stories his work colleagues loved to tell. Before Ken Lay designated Ferraris and other high-end automobiles as company cars, Houston Natural Gas had a strict policy that applied even to the CEO. All company cars were the most basic white Caprice Classic, no bells or whistles. They were lucky to have air conditioning.

When my dad was promoted to corporate vice president in charge of special projects, pre-Lay, he received a memo stating his benefits. Among them the standard issue basic white Caprice Classic. He picked up his keys from HR. Someone—we never found out who—had ordered a two-toned blue Caprice Classic, fully loaded.

My dad was actually embarrassed, since Robert Herring drove a basic white edition. He offered to trade with Herring, but that CEO said nope, it was his. That car became a running joke at HNG.

So seeing a similar car (my dad had bought his company car from Enron when he left), knowing it wasn’t he, that was hard. And not crying when I saw that model on the Katy Freeway? I viewed that as a sign that I had conquered grief over his death.

Until Father’s Day 1989.

I heard someone wish some random man happy Father’s Day, and I fell apart. I felt like I was five years old. I wanted my daddy back. The daddy who always gave me such good advice. Who loved me no matter what.

It took another five years before I could leave the house on Father’s Day. I was happy indeed that others celebrated the day with their fathers. That’s much, much better than the alternative.

But. But.

Since my mother’s death in 2013, both Mother’s and Father’s Day are simply days I avoid restaurants. They’re finally no longer painful. I’m not reduced to a puddle on either day.

I also know that there may be some of you reading this who are facing your first Father’s Day after your dad’s death. Maybe the second or third or fourth Father’s Day. And it’s still hard for you.

You are not crazy. You do not have to pull yourself together for anyone’s sake. You don’t have to pretend everything’s all right when it’s not.

It’s fine if you start crying and excuse yourself from dinner. It’s fine if you don’t want to get out of your pajamas all day. It’s fine if you cannot bring yourself to take what feels like an obligatory trip to the cemetery. You don’t have to do anything.

Healing does come. In its own time, in its own way. Give time a chance.

Postscript #1: When we were growing up, even when money was very, very tight, on Valentine's Day my dad would always get my sister and me a little pink box of chocolates, and Mama and Granny a big red box of chocolates. Often he'd also buy a pink box of chocolates for Aunt Lelia.

When I worked in Germany 1979/1980, I kept telling my coworkers that my dad would be mailing me a box of chocolates for Valentine's Day. It's not celebrated so much in Germany. But I just knew my dad would NOT forget. February 14, 15, 16, 1980 came and went. No chocolate. One dear coworker (hi, Werner Nagel!) lived in Waldenbuch, where Ritter Schokolade is made. He brought me a special bag of real chocolate, not the broken pieces he'd usually bring for the office on Tuesdays. It's not from your dad, but still.

I returned to Houston in September 1980 and mentioned that disappointment to my mother. Thought nothing of it, until my dad pulled me aside one day. I'd heard Valentine's Day isn't celebrated in Germany, and I wasn't sure what your coworkers would think about your father sending you a box of chocolates. I didn't send it because I didn't want to embarrass you.

When I told him I always looked forward to the gift, he seemed surprised. Every year until his death, he made sure I got a big pink box of chocolates.

Postscript #2: My father’s father was an abusive SOB. That particular grandfather could be charming when he chose. And he was generally good to people who were not family. But my dad, his brother, and my grandmother often endured beatings at his hands. It took every ounce of strength in my grandmother’s body to kick him out of the house.

Over time, my dad and his brother made peace with their father.

But they never celebrated Father’s Day with him. My dad knew how to make his mother bawl her eyes out with the perfect card and flowers he knew she’d love and candy and a nice dinner. And he always ensured that whatever he got for his mother, those same things for my mom were three times nicer. Smart man.

And yet, despite a truce in the hostilities, his father forfeited the privilege of his sons’ affection and presence.

My dad, his brother, and my paternal grandmother spent their lives proving that horrific abuse does not destroy the ability to love deeply, sincerely, and wholly.

If Father’s Day is hard for you not because you grieve a father’s death, but because you did not have the father you’d like to celebrate, know this: You are not responsible for their actions, only yours. It’s hard, it’s work, it’s often above your paygrade. But you can be the love to others that you did not know.

My father and his brother are proof of that.