6 May 2011
FD5/Final Exam
A Life Lesson Learned in Death
This week I endured not only finals prep but also the one year anniversary of my father's death. On May 3, 2010, my father Jose F. Alvillar passed away at the age of 65. The cause of death wasn't questioned. He had battled alcoholism since he was 14. With his divorce two years prior, and my moving thousands of miles away only five months earlier, it seemed he had settled into his whiskey and beer fueled haze and just waited. I always felt I knew what would cause my father's demise, just not when. For years, I prepared myself mentally for the phone call that would start the grieving process. I even tried to grieve early. Being a control freak, I actually thought I could outwit the grieving process. As the anniversary date loomed ahead I slowly began to realize that just as I wasn't in control of how I coped with my father's death, I wouldn't be in control of coping with the one year anniversary. [THESIS] The realization sunk in that you can never prepare your heart for loss, and you cannot micromanage the grieving process. [THESIS]
My father would often reminisce about how he had met my mother. He had just ended a bad relationship and as a muscular, handsome and athletic man it was only a matter of time before he found a new love. My beautifully feisty mother was already a divorced woman of two, and determined to not get burned again. They were set-up on a blind date in a location based on their shared interest, dancing. It just so happened that the location also met one of my father's main interests, drinking. They sat at a private booth and enjoyed a couple beers along with some awkward chitchat. Suddenly, the band leader tapped on the microphone to get the audience's attention. The "baile" (Spanish for dance) began and instantly they realized they no longer needed to speak. They were the first ones on the dance floor and four hours later, they were the last two leave it. These two talented dancers shimmied and grooved their way into a romance and into marriage. One day a year later, my mother sat on my father's lap and told my father his future. She whispered into his ear that she was going to give him a daughter, and this little girl would not only share their dancing rhythm and moves but would also look just like him. My dad would tell me years later that he knew in that moment that he was forever changed. He would have a little girl to love him until the end.
When I was a year old my dad frantically called my mother to come to his downtown construction job site, "And hurry!" he exclaimed. Fearing he had been injured she roared across the Denver highway to get to him as I sat in the backseat strapped in my car seat. It didn't take long for her to see what my father rushed her to check out. Going 65 mph on the highway my mother slammed on the brakes as she swerved on to the shoulder as she saw gigantic painted lettering on the metal framework of a large downtown building the words, "Margo Marie Alvillar, Daddy Loves You!" As she stood crying on the side of the roadway she held me up to look at the tribute as she cooed, "Margo, you are definitely your daddy's pride and joy."
I suppose the beers, intense chemistry on the dance floor and a love child seemed romantic at the time. Unfortunately, my dad was an unreformed lady killer and my mom was an unreformed badass, so the romance and their marriage lasted all of three years. As a toddler I would spend weekends with my father. He nursed me to health with a small stuffed puppy dog when I got the chickenpox on one of his visits, took me to see the ice-capades and even designed my very own play house made from a t.v. cardboard box. I used to love our Sunday morning runs around the recreation center track and lunch at my dad's favorite neighborhood bar. The waitresses would braid my hair while he flirted with them, and I was happily distracted with a large bag of quarters used to play whatever I wanted on the jukebox. I relish those memories although many outsiders would question who in their right mind would take their daughter on field trips to neighborhood bars. That was my dad and I loved him just as he was.
In the years that followed, my dad moved to California where construction work was easier to come by, and my relationship with him became a few brief letters and a $200 a month child support payment, until in 1992 he offered to have me spend the summer with him in California. Okay, so maybe my mom forced him to take me, after all now she was a single mother of three kids and was in desperate need of a break. Nonetheless, I was thrilled. During that summer trip I enjoyed being spoiled by my father, devoured the all time best carnitas from a small taco cart near Tijuana, learned my father had a monstrous snore, and battled my fear of water by developing the courage to swim towards my daddy's arms. I had learned how to swim. I will always remember that vacation as the one that sealed our bond, regardless of what was to come. It was just he and I, and I'd like to think he was proud of what he was able to accomplish as a single dad for a summer.
My teenage years and early twenties were the most difficult times between myself and my father. I became angry when my mom nearly died in 1994, and my father left my brother to care for me. I blamed the bottle for stealing away my father. I blamed my father for not fighting harder. I often ignored his calls, and when his calls became less frequent I blamed him for that. The turning point for us occurred in 2007, when I became plagued with severe depression. It was so paralyzing I was unable to care for my daughter, and my sister had to take her for a week while I cried, slept and cried some more. As I battled through it I had a profound realization that we all have darkness and demons to battle in our lives. My answer for all of the ills in my life was depression and threats of suicide. My father's answer to a childhood filled with neglect and abuse was alcohol and drinking to the point of blackout. I imagined my daughter eventually blaming me for not fighting harder. I realized that I couldn't let my sickness define my daughter's childhood, and I could no longer allow my father's sickness to define my life. I got up out of bed and decided to love myself a little better and love my father as well. I knew I would never enable his drinking, but I would choose to love him in spite of it.
Our last few years together brought us closer than ever before. When he rented an apartment after his divorce, I came by with many housewarming goodies. I hung pictures and plaques with words of inspiration to help him through the lonely nights. I took him grocery shopping to ensure he was well fed. He stayed sober for awhile and was even able to come to my daughter's kindergarten graduation. When I decided to move to Hawaii in order to go back to school, I made sure he knew that regardless of the distance that separated us, I would always carry him in my heart. Shortly before his death he called me and told me that when I had first decided to move he would wake up every morning with anxiety and worry for me. He said, "I worried and worried until one day I woke up a little lighter. I had realized that I have nothing to worry about. You are one tough cookie, just like your mama." He ended our call with a promise to save up enough money in order to come for a visit. He said he had never imagined visiting Hawaii, until now. I promised him that someday we would share paradise together.
My father had numerous children, from many women but only two of us showed up to help clean out his meager apartment along with his ex-wife. My older sister hadn't spoken to our father in more than ten years, but being in the space that he spent his final days helped her to grieve for a father she hardly knew. He had tons of photos, most of them of his kids. Our photos crowded his living room walls, leaned on his old baseball trophies and were found scattered amidst whiskey bottles. We were all reminders of his glory days. The medical examiner had reassured me he had gone quick. There was no long and drawn out suffering like his life and last years had been. He had died on his living room floor with his front door wide open. It had taken his neighbors awhile to notice because they were used to him passing out drunk on his floor. Once mementos had been collected, his broken tv and old couch had been thrown in the dumpster and we were prepared to lock up his apartment for the last time we encountered his neighbor and drinking buddy. He had stopped by to offer his condolences. He told us that he had been the one to find him and call for police. Before I had a chance to introduce myself, he asked me if I was his Hawaiian little girl. I laughed and confirmed I was indeed his Hawaiian child. He told me that he talked about me all the time. He said that my dad would often brag about his smart little girl that was in college, could dance better than he and his ex-wife and looked just like him. "You definitely look just like him, ma'am," the neighbor agreed. "Did you know that when I found him, he had a picture of you in his hand?" he asked. As I dropped to my knees at the thought of my father grasping on to my photo the neighbor continued, "I hope it brings you comfort that he died with your love in his heart."
Five long and arduous days later my father's ashes and I returned to Hawaii. As we cleared through the security check point where the box containing my father was placed in an x-ray screening machine, swabbed and tested for bomb fragments I whispered to my father, "I told you that you would make it to Hawaii someday, daddy."
Grief is a funny thing. It constantly lurks in the shadows and pops up when you least expect it; as you sit in an early morning college class, in the middle of rush hour traffic, or even at 3 in the morning when you are awakened with the scent of his cologne. In the week before the anniversary date I would cry at the drop of a dime. I couldn't hold myself together and I began to worry those around me. I couldn't imagine how May 3, 2011 would be for me. I planned to take the day off from work. I awoke that morning expecting the wave of darkness to hit me, knock me over and stifle my every breath. Surprisingly, instead I felt compelled to go to work. The day came and went and try as I might, I couldn't cry. The next day I greeted my dad's box of ashes with a soft kiss and a gentle squeeze as I told him, "We made it dad. We made it through a whole year." Although I now know as my father did at the news of my arrival so many years before, our lives were meant to be spent together. Occasionally the longing for one of his afternoon phone calls is nearly too much to bear, but I go on as I know he would want me to. From him I learned a valuable lesson that I now share with the little girl that owns my heart, living and dying is a part of life. Don't let grief make you stop living as it is just a consequence to love. You can't grieve what you don't love, and Jose F. Alvillar, Margo Loves You!
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