I got off the school bus on a chilly New York afternoon after a boring day of 8th grade classes listening to teachers trying so hard to fill our heads with information, which came across like the adult voices represented in all The Peanuts cartoons. 

I was more disconnected this whole week as my mother had been in the hospital recovering from back surgery. I had no idea it was going to be the day my heart was broken by the two most important people in my life, though one had no choice in the matter.

I am the oldest of 4 children. I would be the first home after walking up the steep hill to our home listening to my Walkman. I would have the whole house to myself until my 3 siblings arrived home later and then my father soon after them. My Mom was due home in 2 days from the hospital. We would all go say goodnight to her after dinner tonight, which a had become our new short term routine since she went in there for the procedure. 

I dumped my books on the table and started to make popcorn on the stove. Popcorn was my mother’s favorite snack. I was looking forward to having some while I watched Guiding Light before the other kids got home. There would be plenty leftover for their snack when they arrived home, as it always made so much. Easy Peasy.

Before the popping in the pan stopped there was a knock at the door. It was odd.

I peeked out, and it was my aunt. She told me she came to stay until my father arrived home. This was weird and very strange. I asked questions she was vague, and the popcorn on the stove burnt and smelled up the entire house. So much for that. It smelled horrible.

The house phone rang during my questioning and she dashed for it. We had a fancy cordless phone. Both my parents worked at IBM so we tended to have some cool high-tech things for the times. My aunt went outside to talk. I knew something was horribly wrong at this point.

I insisted on knowing what the hell was going on. I could feel the vomit in the back of my throat and I was choking it down. All I could smell was the burnt popcorn, feeling nothing making sense. To this day, the smell of burnt popcorn will make me want to puke on demand.

As my aunt came in from getting off the phone, she told me my father would be home soon to explain everything but we would not be going to see my mom tonight. Her voice was now mimicking The Peanuts, teachers, as she was feeding me bullshit.

I was relentless and demanded she get my father to call me. I knew deep down, the words she wasn't saying, or wasn't allowed to say, but I wanted to hear it. The younger kids arrived home during me raising a stink and it was all hushed down.  

I slipped away and went upstairs to my parents room to the other phone and called the hospital to try and call my mother’s room. No answer. I then told my aunt if my father didn’t call me I was walking to the hospital myself to see what the hell was going on. 

My father did finally call. He said my Mom was having an issue and he was with her and he would call with an update soon or come home once she was settled. I knew. I knew he wasn’t telling me the truth. 

He arrived home 4 hours after I spoke with him to tell us children “Mom had died.” I already knew the words were coming but I was still in literal shock. My father hugged us all and all I could smell was whiskey on his breath. The odor of the burnt popcorn was drowned out by his words laced with the smell of alcohol.  

From that day forward both my parents were dead, only one of them by choice. I never remembered my father’s breath not smelling of alcohol again.

At age 14, two days later, I had to pick out my Mom’s funeral clothes, her mass cards, her casket, and her flowers. Yes my father was there next to me but incapable: a void of a man. He was checked out.

It was my responsibility to sort it out. I had to okay her final viewing before the calling hours to make sure her make up was proper, I made them change her lipstick and paint her nails.

While trying to process the loss of my Mom at an age when I needed her the most I was also facing the true reality my father was not the man I thought he was. I was at an age a young girl needed her father to set the bar for any future relationships I may have with men. Not to mention I needed him to stand strong in this moment for me and for my siblings.

I don’t mean to dismiss his grief or loss of his spouse and love of his life, but he also replaced my Mom within 3 months of her being buried, and leaving me and my siblings so selfishly behind set a bar on how I was to let myself be treated for a long, long, time.

We had no time to grieve as a family, he was never home, the weeks after she was buried. He was out drinking to forget. My siblings and I raised each other spending lots of time alone. When he was home I would be sent to my room because he said, “he could not stand to look at my face, because I looked like Her.”

My first true heartbreak was caused by the death of my mother, but the first man to break my heart was my father. His inability to not deal with his hurt and loss in a healthy manner led to many choices and set in place the very solid layered groundwork for me to choose bad relationships throughout my life with men.

The men I choose had pieces of my Dad, which I tried to fix in them to get closure. Closure I would never get with him no matter how many times I tried. It was a lost cause and it took me many years and tears to accept that. I loved my Dad, but I didn’t like him, and that’s okay. I now know that.

I did marry a man I loved. I knew deep down, I wasn’t IN love with him. I think he would say the same regarding me. My marriage was successful in that we have two great children, for that I have zero regrets. It lasted 18 years. We had plenty of other issues within our relationship which were toxic. I was however, primped and ready for all the men I choose by my father’s behavior and treatment of me. My divorce was long and draining in ways I wish on no human. My goal was my children first no matter what the cost. I personally paid a great toll for this choice but with no regrets.

The sad result of my fathers shortcomings and my hyper-awareness of not wanting to  become like my father has made me incapable of falling in love I fear at times. I am capable of love, but surrendering to being in love is something I feel I will never be able to swan dive into.

I was treated less then by the one man that was supposed to always catch me, yet I had to catch him. I have played the role of catcher many times, with men and many other relationships throughout my life,  it is a tiring position.

I own the fear to surrender into totally falling in love because I was always catching, no one was catching me, as far back as I remember.  I was put in the position and stayed there for all the extra innings.

So, for now, I am catching myself, and of course, always, my babies. I am benching myself though from the position in my relationships with men. Pass me a Gatorade.