The first Father’s Day without the father of my children is two days behind. As I celebrated with my own father, in his late 80’s, my feelings were mixed; I am grateful that my father is still with us, but sadly could not guide my children on how to navigate the first Father’s Day without a father. I do not want to say it is a cruel trick of nature, for nature has her own rules; however, for me it felt out of the “natural order.”
Roy was a good father, the best. He was at his finest as dad. We started our family when we were in our early twenties. From the day we met, we were clear parenthood was something we both wanted and did not wait to begin. Roy’s father died young and missed out on grandfather- hood. Our second child was born a few weeks after George died. Roy witnessed the birth of eight grandchildren three of our grandchildren are now teenagers. He taught his children and grandchildren to love the outdoors. We walked the ocean beaches and hiked in the mountains together as a family. Roy was the leader.
I remember with fondness and humor the birth of our first child. I went into labor at the Bellevue Arts Fair. Then, to be close to Group Health, which in those days only had the Capitol Hill hospital, I spent several hours in labor at my parent’s home in Mt. Baker. Roy was in the middle of watching a movie on the television. When I determined it was time to leave for the hospital he insisted on finishing the movie. He was certain he would just sit around waiting at the hospital and being full of young energy in those days could not manage anxious anticipation. Turns out he was right. Many more hours of labor were yet to come. Finally the doctor’s determined that labor was progressing so slowly that in order to prevent fetal distress I needed a cesarean section. It was the wee hours of the morning; Roy sat dozing with my colorful shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He had arrived at the hospital in the afternoon of a very hot Seattle July day clad in a T-shirt and shorts. The long labor and the hospital air conditioning were just too much.
Our second child’s birth was much easier on us as in those days one cesarean birth dictated the practice that subsequent children would be delivered by cesarean. Our second child’s birthday was determined by the doctor’s surgery schedule. We decided for many reasons to adopt our third child, which was the easiest of all on my body and our schedule.
Roy was an equal partner at caring for the children. He would rescue a crying baby in the middle of the night and rock the child back to sleep. A few times I would find both the baby and Roy asleep in the rocking chair next to the bed. When the children were older he established the bedtime routine of singing and playing the guitar before bedtime. ‘Puff the Dragon’ was a household favorite that he sang often. As he was dying we played the Peter, Paul and Mary’s version. He moved his feet rhythmically to the music even though he was too weak to talk. He took the children camping on his own sometimes when I needed a mother weekend break.
Roy was a white man with an African American wife and children. He knew how to use his social privilege to make the world a better place, for us. If for one second he forgot I would remind him and he would follow my direction. In my experience I have not found many white men with comparable skill and vulnerability. Roy, along with my father and brothers were excellent role models for our two boys who in turn are excellent fathers and uncles.
He provided us with enough financial resource and privilege that I have a choice about how I want to spend the rest of my life. African American older single women are the least resourced group in the United States. That statistic drives my passion; I will continue practicing and teaching social work and social justice.
I am filled with sadness and memories, as today marks the two-month anniversary of his death. The shock of it has dissipated some, and the deep sadness is beginning to creep in. My body and mind are working together to ease me into the permanence of his death. I brace myself each morning as I walk to the empty kitchen and now routinely make coffee for one. When I return home from work, I prepare myself for the hollow silence of an empty house, no computer case at the bottom of the staircase for me to trip over; no one to talk to about the day’s tragedies and triumphs.
I look for signs that he is reaching out to me from the spirit world. The lights flickered the other night when I was playing an Eric Clapton song. Is he the crow that sits upon the bush gazing at me when I stand weeping at the window waiting aimlessly for his blue Prius to approach the driveway? The day that he died as the morticians were removing his body from our home, I heard a clicking sound in the hallway. Intuitively I sense that he was leaving me with an identifying code. Every evening the sound returns. I cannot pin point where it comes from. The cycle of life and death continues to be a mystery…