By Whitney...
The time had come for us to scatter Daddy's ashes. This task was much more difficult that I ever thought it would be. I had made a promise to my daddy a very long time ago that when he died, I would scatter his ashes in New Mexico. Those were his wishes and he never wavered from them. I knew from the time I was about 25 years old, that one day, I would have to see to it that his final wishes were carried out. Honestly, back then, I figured it would be sooner rather than later, and being that Stormi was just a tiny little girl, I was pretty sure this entire task would fall squarely on my shoulders. I was wrong. When my daddy died in January, I was 43 years old, my sister was 26 and Daddy was 68, almost 69. I am pretty sure that nobody thought he would make it to that age, considering the way he lived. But he was a tough old man and the Lord looks after people like my daddy, so he did make it longer than we ever expected. I appreciated that he lived long enough so that I didn't have to take care of things alone. Because I wouldn't have survived what had to be done without my sister.
I have a stated what I am about to say next before on this blog, but not to this degree. And to my aunts and uncles who read here, I am sorry. But I am keeping things real here, and life is not always pretty. But mainly, I need to confess this because it is the God's honest truth and as I have learned over the years, sometimes the truth hurts, but that is how we learn and grow. And so here is my confession, prefaced with only this: I loved my daddy, dearly. I did. And it is important to me that you all know that because it is a fact. And so with that established, here is the awful confession part.
I had hardly spoken to my dad in two years because every time he would call me or I would try to talk to him, he was drunk. I had told him I would gladly talk to him if he was sober, but if he was drunk, it was not happening. I just could not take the verbal abuse anymore. Two days before Daddy died, I said to my husband, Brian, "You know what? I am sick of him leaving me horrible messages when I don't answer the phone. I'm sick of him calling me every name in the book. I'm sick of him saying ugly things about my mother. I'm sick of his lies. Every time my phone rings I get a horrible, nasty feeling in my stomach. I SWEAR to you, I will be RELIEVED when he is dead!" And Brian, being the nice guy that he is, just hugged me and didn't say a word. He knew I was full of crap, but he kept that to himself. And he was right. So... fast forward two days later when I get the hysterical call from my sweet aunt during my son's birthday dinner that Daddy was, indeed, dead. And you know what? I did NOT feel a single thing but horrible, heartache and pain that my daddy was gone. I wasn't relieved. I was crushed. Because now, the dream was all over and I was sure I would never have the answers that I had craved for so long. Why? Why did he choose alcohol over us? I knew then that I would never, ever have the relationship with him that I craved so desperately. My hope for our future was over. And I cried for days on end because I NEEDED five more minutes with him. Why the Hell couldn't I have that? Just five more minutes....it became like a mantra in my mind. What would I ask him if I had five minutes of time with a sober Daddy? I kept thinking of all these questions....if only I could talk to him.
Even now, two years later, I still catch myself thinking, "If I could call him for just a minute....just to hear his voice one more time." Sadly, that can't ever happen again. When my husband upgraded my phone to an iPhone 5, I lost the last message that Daddy ever left for me. It was not a good message, drunk, abusive, more of the same as always, but I cherished it because it was his voice and honestly, as strange as it sounds, it was him. It was really all I knew of my Daddy in recent years. And now, even his voice is lost to me. I would love to hear him one more time, even if he was being mean and abusive. Just to hear his voice again.....
Anyway, with all that said, I went to Tulsa when he died, cleaned out his apartment, closed bank accounts, and had my Daddy cremated and mailed to my little sister's house in New Mexico. We both knew that no matter how sad and difficult the task was, and no matter how many times he let us down, we had a job to do. It almost became like honoring Daddy's last wishes was a pilgrimage for us and in many ways it was. We never doubted that we were doing the right thing. I believe that Stormi and I both knew that we had never been so right in our lives. And so I flew to New Mexico in March 2011 and we left on our journey to make peace with the past and build hope for our future.
The time had come for us to scatter Daddy's ashes. This task was much more difficult that I ever thought it would be. I had made a promise to my daddy a very long time ago that when he died, I would scatter his ashes in New Mexico. Those were his wishes and he never wavered from them. I knew from the time I was about 25 years old, that one day, I would have to see to it that his final wishes were carried out. Honestly, back then, I figured it would be sooner rather than later, and being that Stormi was just a tiny little girl, I was pretty sure this entire task would fall squarely on my shoulders. I was wrong. When my daddy died in January, I was 43 years old, my sister was 26 and Daddy was 68, almost 69. I am pretty sure that nobody thought he would make it to that age, considering the way he lived. But he was a tough old man and the Lord looks after people like my daddy, so he did make it longer than we ever expected. I appreciated that he lived long enough so that I didn't have to take care of things alone. Because I wouldn't have survived what had to be done without my sister.
I have a stated what I am about to say next before on this blog, but not to this degree. And to my aunts and uncles who read here, I am sorry. But I am keeping things real here, and life is not always pretty. But mainly, I need to confess this because it is the God's honest truth and as I have learned over the years, sometimes the truth hurts, but that is how we learn and grow. And so here is my confession, prefaced with only this: I loved my daddy, dearly. I did. And it is important to me that you all know that because it is a fact. And so with that established, here is the awful confession part.
I had hardly spoken to my dad in two years because every time he would call me or I would try to talk to him, he was drunk. I had told him I would gladly talk to him if he was sober, but if he was drunk, it was not happening. I just could not take the verbal abuse anymore. Two days before Daddy died, I said to my husband, Brian, "You know what? I am sick of him leaving me horrible messages when I don't answer the phone. I'm sick of him calling me every name in the book. I'm sick of him saying ugly things about my mother. I'm sick of his lies. Every time my phone rings I get a horrible, nasty feeling in my stomach. I SWEAR to you, I will be RELIEVED when he is dead!" And Brian, being the nice guy that he is, just hugged me and didn't say a word. He knew I was full of crap, but he kept that to himself. And he was right. So... fast forward two days later when I get the hysterical call from my sweet aunt during my son's birthday dinner that Daddy was, indeed, dead. And you know what? I did NOT feel a single thing but horrible, heartache and pain that my daddy was gone. I wasn't relieved. I was crushed. Because now, the dream was all over and I was sure I would never have the answers that I had craved for so long. Why? Why did he choose alcohol over us? I knew then that I would never, ever have the relationship with him that I craved so desperately. My hope for our future was over. And I cried for days on end because I NEEDED five more minutes with him. Why the Hell couldn't I have that? Just five more minutes....it became like a mantra in my mind. What would I ask him if I had five minutes of time with a sober Daddy? I kept thinking of all these questions....if only I could talk to him.
Even now, two years later, I still catch myself thinking, "If I could call him for just a minute....just to hear his voice one more time." Sadly, that can't ever happen again. When my husband upgraded my phone to an iPhone 5, I lost the last message that Daddy ever left for me. It was not a good message, drunk, abusive, more of the same as always, but I cherished it because it was his voice and honestly, as strange as it sounds, it was him. It was really all I knew of my Daddy in recent years. And now, even his voice is lost to me. I would love to hear him one more time, even if he was being mean and abusive. Just to hear his voice again.....
Anyway, with all that said, I went to Tulsa when he died, cleaned out his apartment, closed bank accounts, and had my Daddy cremated and mailed to my little sister's house in New Mexico. We both knew that no matter how sad and difficult the task was, and no matter how many times he let us down, we had a job to do. It almost became like honoring Daddy's last wishes was a pilgrimage for us and in many ways it was. We never doubted that we were doing the right thing. I believe that Stormi and I both knew that we had never been so right in our lives. And so I flew to New Mexico in March 2011 and we left on our journey to make peace with the past and build hope for our future.