“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.”  Psalm 68:5

“There are five stages of grief.  When you reached this one, you seemed to have hit a ceiling.  Anger.  You need to allow yourself to be angry at your dad.”  The counselor was trying to help me work through my feelings toward my father.  He had shut me out… again.  I had not seen or spoken to him for a few years, and I was trying to accept that I probably never would this side of Heaven.  But I did not want to be angry.  Anger hurt people.  I would try to find my way over that ceiling without anger.

December 31, 2015:  About 8 more years had passed with no word from my father.  The phone on my desk rang at 4:00 p.m.  “Brandi, this is Donnie. Your mom told me to call you at work.” Donnie was a friend of both of my biological parents. “I received a call from your dad’s roommate in Vegas. Your dad is on life-support and the hospital is looking for someone to sign a DNR.”

After we hung up, I called my younger sister Miranda.  She told me that they had learned about Dad from his roommate, Freddie.  Another sister, Val, was his Power of Attorney and was in the process of faxing proof and the DNR.  Miranda, Val, and our brother Cory planned to fly to Vegas on Monday, January 4, to get his affairs in order. I knew that I needed to go. There was a chance that we might see him before he passed.

Before we hung up, Miranda said, “Brandi, the hospital didn’t even know he has kids.”  Those words was like a punch to the gut.  I was his first child.  My parents divorced when I was an infant.  Shortly after, Dad remarried a woman who had three children from a previous marriage.  She and Dad had two more: Miranda and Glen.  All five were raised as Dad’s children.  Six kids.  Six kids who didn’t exist.  My ceiling caved in.  I was angry.  So angry.

I called my husband, David.  He suggested trying to find a round-trip ticket for Friday.  Maybe I could fly there, see Dad, and fly back within 24 hours.  I could be home in time for my oldest son’s wedding on Saturday.  But we planned to decorate the reception hall and chapel on Friday.  “I’m not leaving the day before my son’s wedding.  The living matter,” I spat into the phone.

We traditionally spent New Year’s Eve with a couple of friends who lived about 30 minutes away.  When I got home, David could see that I was upset.  He suggested that we cancel, but I couldn’t just sit at home.  I refused.  While my husband drove us there, my anger boiled over.  I slapped the dashboard and yelled, “D*** him!  He did this on purpose!  He made sure none of us could be there for him!” He didn’t tell anyone who loved him that he had lung cancer. He didn’t tell the hospital that he had children. It felt like the most extreme act of abandonment.

Throughout the evening, I received updates from Miranda.  The papers were faxed and Hospice was involved.  His lungs were 85% saturated, but he was resting comfortably.

I felt like something was broken inside me.

January 1, 2016: I awoke in the morning feeling like a zombie.  I drove to the mall with my mother to pick up a few things for the wedding, then helped my future daughter-in-law and her parents decorate the reception hall.  We finished with a couple of hours to spare before decorating the chapel.  I tried to take a nap, but couldn’t sleep.  My mind was numb.

After decorating the chapel that evening, David and I went to McDonald’s to talk.  I told him, “I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I can’t even cry. I’m not okay.”  He put his arm around me and encouraged me to let it out, but I couldn’t.  A dam of anger and pain held back the tears.

“Rain and rainbows always come together.  Focusing on my rainbow today.”  Reception hall photo and social media post 1/1/2016