I want to take this time to say to teenagers everywhere … if you have ever loved your parents, even though they are strict and overprotective or seem like they don’t care about you or understand you; or if they won’t let you do what you want with your friends … be mad at them if you will (you’ll eventually get over it hopefully), but never, and I repeat, NEVER, ever say anything along the lines of, “I wish you were dead … I hate you … why don’t you just drop dead!” Words like that will bring shame, guilt, sorrow, despair, and remorse to the very pit of your soul and like an anchor around your neck, will drag you down to the pits of hell and misery. It will haunt you for the rest of your life!
I remember the day my dad and I had another one of these arguments over something else he wouldn’t let me do. I don’t even remember what it was about exactly, but I was fifteen at the time and it had meant a lot to me—a pretty big deal. All I remember is him yelling at me, after which, I stormed into my room and slammed the door. I was furious and was muttering under my breath. “What did you say?” he yelled threateningly. “Nothing!” I snapped back, and then muttered those fateful words, “I wish you were dead! I hate you! Why don’t you just drop dead!”
I was basically a good kid. I never got into trouble at school, I didn’t use drugs, and I didn’t drink or smoke like a lot of the kids did. I didn’t know why they wouldn’t trust me; why they wouldn’t let me do things or go places with my friends other than because they said so. It just wasn’t fair! I stewed over things in my room for a while, then put on some records and listened to the teen idols of the time … The Osmonds, Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, Jackson 5, and others.
Music always made me feel better and I thought about the Osmonds who were my number one favorite. They were Mormons. And I began to wonder why my dad didn’t like Mormons. They seemed like the perfect family to me. I had read a lot about them in the teen magazines and they sometimes talked about their religion. They mentioned God and Jesus Christ who played an important part in their lives, so I didn’t understand why my dad thought they didn’t believe in Jesus. In fact, I wished my family could be more like theirs.
I began to realize that my dad didn’t know everything and that grown-ups can make mistakes too. Our argument, however, was soon forgotten and it wasn’t long until we were back to talking again.
About a week later I had come inside from playing one of our many street games. It was about dinner time and my mom was busy in the kitchen making dinner. I asked if I could help because I loved to cook, so she had me cut up some vegetables for her. After that, I went and sat at the dining table and looked out the window as I did almost every day, watching for my dad to get home from work. It was kind of like a ritual. I’d sit at the table and watch for his truck to pull up, then I would then run out to meet him and carry his lunchbox in. Other than our sporadic arguments, I was very close to my dad and enjoyed helping him with various projects, like painting, or mixing cement for the walkway and patio he built.
This day was no different. When he arrived I ran out to greet him, carried in his lunchbox, and asked about his day. All was well. He changed clothes, grabbed a beer, and went out back to play with the dogs for a little while I continued to help my mom in the kitchen. After awhile, my dad came back in and said he was going to take a nap, and to be sure and wake him up for dinner.
About a half hour or so later, my mom asked me to continue stirring something she had on the stove while she went to wake up dad. All of a sudden, she comes running out of the bedroom in hysterics, crying, “Daddy’s dead, daddy’s dead!” The words hit me like a shotgun! He couldn’t be—he was just playing with the dogs!
While my mom was frantically calling my dad’s brother, I turned off the stove and ran to the doorway of their bedroom. “Dad?” I called out. No answer. A little louder, “Dad?” Still no answer. I stepped just inside the doorway and spoke even louder, “Dad?”
By now, this horrible feeling swept over me like a sinking weight in my gut, and my first thoughts were of those awful words I had muttered under my breath just a week ago. They echoed in my mind now, “I wish you were dead! I hate you! Why don’t you just drop dead!” I began to panic. “Daddy?” I cried out again. I could see him from the doorway, but his knees were raised up, so I couldn’t see his face. “Daddy!” The tears started coming as I yelled out, “Daaa-ddyyy!” one more time as I rushed to the side of the bed. I stopped in my tracks when I saw his face. He looked like he was in pain! His back was arched, his head tilted back with his eyes bulging and his mouth was wide open like he had panicked. He was purple and looked like one of those dead corpses you see in the horror movies. He’d had another heart attack!
I ran out of the room shocked and terrified—that scene permanently ingrained in my mind. By this time, my sisters had come in from playing and my uncle and cousins had arrived to help my mom with making arrangements. From that point on, everything that happened seemed to become a big blur. I just remember my sisters and cousins and me hugging and crying in each others arms.
The next time I saw my dad was at the wake where people came in to take one last look and pay their last respects. We were seated behind a thin curtain where we could see everyone who filed by the casket. I suppose the curtain was there to make us feel like we had some kind of privacy.
Although my dad looked a lot better than when I first saw him, he looked more like one of those wax figures at the wax museum. He didn’t look natural even though he was no longer purple.
This was the first funeral I had ever attended and didn’t really know what to expect. My uncle and some close friends were the pallbearers. It was a military funeral as my dad was a navy retiree, and all was going well I suppose until they shot off those guns. I wasn’t expecting that—no one had explained to me that they were going to shoot off the guns, and it scared me to death! At that point, I just wanted to go home and die! All I could think about were those words that kept echoing in my mind, “I wish you were dead! I hate you! Why don’t you just drop dead!”