“Has your Dad called you this week?” That was the first text from my mom.
“No” was the answer from my sister and me.
I was in the middle of a school musical rehearsal on a cold Thursday night.
“He won’t answer my calls, and it seems like his inbox is full. Did he get a new phone?”
I took matters into my own hands and excused myself to the bathroom, making sure to take my phone with me. I pressed the call button and anxiously listened to each ring. Finally, the ringing stopped, “you have reached the voicemail box of Stacey Dircks. Please leave a message at the tone.”
“He's not answering me either” I typed in reply.
The relationship between my dad and I was a difficult one. From the surface, we appeared to be a happy father-daughter duo; however, our relationship was much different than it seemed. My dad was quick to anger and impulsive. He was also a happy, go-lucky guy. He liked vacations, beer, and, most importantly--his two daughters. He showed his love with extravagant trips and gifts, spending money he didn't have. He suffered from various medical conditions that made him tired and weak. He was always too proud to follow through with his medications and appointments. Being around him was like walking on eggshells--never knowing what personality you might get.
My mom decided to call the Eldridge police department for a wellness check on the car ride home from her work. When she pulled into the garage, they told her what they had found inside my dad's one-room apartment: the TV playing the local news, the heater running, an open beer on the side table, and my Dad's body in his recliner. They estimated he had been dead since February 16.
Nine days.
"Girls, please come to the living room," my mom said as she walked into the house. Deep in my gut, I knew what was coming.
"They found your dad…" was all she could say, tears rolling down her face.
I fell to the floor. I couldn't breathe. I was screaming, over and over and over.
“You can not tell anyone about this until the morning, your grandma can't know yet,” was what my mom told my sister and I. he last thing I remember that night was taking a pile of sleeping pills and sleeping a dark, dreamless sleep. I woke up to hundreds of texts from family and friends.
I'm sorry for your loss. Can I bring you anything? How are you feeling? Did he look sick? When was the last time you saw him? At least you have good memories, right? Your dad was a great guy, I see him in you. When is the funeral? So sad he won't be there for your graduation.
I was overwhelmed with my own mental health struggles. Learning about psychology through community college classes provided by my high school has really helped me to overcome my own barriers created by mental health. I also attended lots of counseling where it really clicked for me that it was a path I wanted to take. I feel like I can finally understand my own mind and feel in-control of my emotions. I want to provide the same opportunities to others, especially young children who might not understand mental health or trauma.
Losing anyone, especially a parent, proves just how meaningful your relationships with other people are. Without the support of my family or my friends, I would not have been able to begin to heal. For months after his death, it felt like I was squeezed into a dark tube where the air is thick and it's hard to breathe. I yell for help and no one hears me. Finally, I am surrounded by people who shine a light and say “get out of there!” And I do because they all reach down and pull me out. I will never "get over” the loss of my dad, but what I can get over is the hurt. I can choose every day to think about how he loved me and keep moving forward.