I took last weekend off from doing the little show, things got extremely hard for me. And not in the fun way. I guess I should start with the dream I had.
Now I know some of you don't believe in a higher power, some of you do, and some of you think psychics are charlatans. I; however, believe there is something out there beyond our understanding, and while some people claim to have some sort of powers, I do believe some people have gifts. And I do believe that people who have passed do try to contact you.
When I initially started my anti-depressants, I didn't have one single dream I could remember. I did go to my doctor's to have my dosage adjusted because I was becoming lethargic and numb. And while I don't want to feel heartache and pain, I would rather feel that versus nothing.
After a few days of the lower dosage, I had a dream that if I hadn't woken up, I would have sworn it was real. My sister and I were working in a Jack in a Box, but we were owners or a higher up person because we were dressed in business attire. My sister came to my office and said, "He's here to talk to you." I asked her if he had talked to her and she said yes. I walked out into what looked like a hospital waiting room, but was still a Jack in the Box. There was two men sitting together, laughing. One older than the other. I walked up to the younger and cleared my throat. He looked at me, and it was like looking into my own eyes. I knew it was my father. I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. He laughed and said, "I know who you are." I said something like, well I haven't seen you in 17 years, I wasn't sure if you would.
He looked at me sternly and said we need to talk and I agreed. He got up and started walking out the door. He walked with a limp, but walked fast. I walked out the door into what looked like a hospital, or maybe a hotel hallway. My father had walked to a set of double doors that you would find in any major grocery store and I followed. I was yelling, "Hey, I want answers, I want to know where you were." We walked through the doors that looked like a parking lot full of green cars. He turned and said "I was in the middle of nowhere." Then turned and kept walking. I again yelled, "I want answers, I want to know why you left." He turned and kinda laughed and said, "Why does it matter, I'm dead." I kind of stared at him and stuttered that I deserved to know. He said, "Vanessa, you deserve a great deal, but you will never get it from me." Then I woke up. And when I woke up, I was more stunned that I had waken up in my own bed then the dream I had.
So a few days had passed and the box the coroner sent with my father's belongings arrived. I wanted to tear it open right away, but couldn't bring myself to do it. i got some reassurance from my twitter pals that it would be ok to wait until I was ready. I made it to later that night. The first thing i pulled out was a picture of a grade school class with five or six older men sitting in with them. I finally see a picture of my father after 17 years of not really remembering what he looked like. I handed the picture to Derek and asked him to pick out which one was my father. I had to be sure I recognized the right man. Derek said, this is him, you have the same eyes. Looking at additional pictures, my father had a cane. He had knee surgery that affected how he walked. He was also in a wheel chair at some point. It could be a coincidence that my father had a limp in my dream, but he didn't have one the last time I saw him, why would I give him one in my dream?
Also in the box was pictures of eagles, pictures of military ships, his wallet, photo albums, his hat, his vest, his bible, his jewelry box, a collection of military pins, five or six zippo lighters with eagles on them, an eagle belt buckle, a few random craft things he made. And as I went through everything, I felt nothing. I really felt like I just got a random stranger's things in the mail. Essentially that is what it was.
Then there was his medical records from when he moved to Wyoming and going to the VA hospital there. What I read was extremely heartbreaking. My father was severely mentally and physically ill. He was physically and mentally abused as a child and his father was an alcoholic. There was mention of multiple suicide attempts, hearing a voice that told him to kill himself, was on drugs for everything from cholesterol to psychosis. He did reference my sister and I a few times. He initially said he was afraid of physically hurting us. He also said he felt guilty for leaving us and losing contact. He was most recently diagnosed with agoraphobia and wouldn't leave his house, even to go to the doctors. He had a case worker that had to check on him every so often just to make sure he was alive and taking care of himself. Which is how they found out he passed away.
At this point, I still hadn't found out how my father passed and the death certificate was not in the box. I called the coroner and asked for her to either send it or call and tell me how he went. With everything in his medical records, I was 99% sure that I was going to be told he overdosed and it wouldn't be an accident.
I received his death certificate in the mail yesterday. I have never been so relieved to be wrong. He had a heart attack. And while it can be explained that he did it to himself due to his horrible diet and pack and a half a day habit, he didn't swallow a ton of pills or whatever form of suicide he could have chosen. And while I am not happy that my father is dead, I am so damn happy I was wrong.
I also received a letter from the cemetery his ashes were buried in that every quarter they have a ceremony for soldiers who did not have a ceremony when they were buried. They played taps, shot the guns, read his name, rank, and place of birth, and presented a flag in his honor. That gave me some comfort because I felt guilty that no one was there when he was buried. No one was there to show any love, grief, or support. And while my father and I did not have any sort of relationship, he was still a human being who was in the Navy during Vietnam. He deserved something.
And for the first time since this all started, I can breath without my chest hurting, I can almost fall asleep with no problem, and I don't start crying at the mention of him passing. I have the biggest sense of relief that I can really stop searching, I really do know where he is, and he had feelings about leaving his family behind.