When pain causes death, madness, and superstition
Children who bury their parents at a tender age are thrust into life’s shadowy alleys before they even have a chance to bask in its sunlight. We witness death’s grim visage before we truly embrace life’s vibrant colors. The luxury of maturing into adulthood before facing loss is an alien concept to us. Death will come knocking, ready or not, and no force—neither divine nor mortal—can hold it at bay.
After my father’s passing, the world felt more menacing than the specter of death itself. If this was the prologue, what dreadful chapters lay ahead? At just seven years old, I wasn’t frightened by the notion of dying; living seemed far more terrifying. For two agonizing years, I watched my father battle for every breath, each day more grueling than the last. Our cramped room became a theater of his suffering. He could barely walk in the final months, and our ground-level hotel room was a reluctant haven, sparing him the ordeal of stairs. My father’s weariness was palpable, his lungs betraying him as Pulmonary Hypertension ravaged his body, leaving his heart struggling to keep up.
Nightly coughs punctuated our sleep, his labored breath a constant reminder of his plight. I would awaken, anxious, to check on him, consumed by worry. My young mind couldn’t grasp the full extent of his illness, but I understood suffering all too well, my heart burdened with sorrow. I adored my Daddy and felt a profound sadness that found no release. My mother, overwhelmed with caregiving, had little time for my fears. So, I buried my feelings, questions, and longing for comfort deep within me. Why was Daddy suffering so much? Why couldn’t the doctors help him? Why were we constantly moving? And why had we left Cuba?
Watching my exhausted mother and ailing father was heart-wrenching, but nothing prepared me for death’s cruel finale. Father’s passing plunged my mother into madness and cast me into a surreal darkness. Memories from that time are fragmented, my mind mercifully shrouding many as a means of survival. The most mystifying aspect was my father’s sudden absence. As a child, I couldn’t comprehend death’s finality. No one explained that his departure was permanent. My unanswered questions fostered a realm of magical thinking where my father might return one day, a land of fantasy offering solace in his absence.
4 Comments
Dear Hissi, Thank you for voicing the excruciating experience you had growing up. That sounds beyond HARD.
I didn’t have a death in childhood but my parents felt like zombies, emotionally dead inside and never emotionally available.
I feel deep compassion for that little girl you were who just needed a warm, loving, reliable adult to comfort you and
give you reassurance. You deserved that on a consistent, daily basis. It’s just too much for a child to go through on her own.
I’m so sorry you went through that. It’s amazing that you are sharing these writings which seems like a beautiful, poignant way
to honor the precious little girl who had to battle this alone. You also honor and comfort the children in all of us who went through similar
experiences growing up as we read your writings. Thank you for your courage and integrity to write and share and for just being YOU!
With deep gratitude and respect,
Bethany
Bethany, oh, I am so touched, and I want to honor YOU for guiding me along my healing journey the last few years! It is only through the inner mothering process that I have grown and been able to peel new layers of grief. I could have not imagined creating a blog and sharing my childhood experiences with the world. You have given me and many other women the tools to embark on this daunting but necessary journey of healing the Mother Wound. I am forever grateful for your work, which has empowered my growth and journey. I have been able to face even the darkest moments of my childhood, the total abandonment, fear and anxiety associated with my father’s death and my mother’s mental struggles.
Having experienced a sudden death of a young father, at 8 years tender age. We didn’t watch him suffer. He went quickly in his sleep, 3 days after Christmas, shocking all of us.
I love your writings. I relate. You have captured the pulse of it. Daddy & Daughter bond, forced to be re-created somehow. I’m now 69 yo. Thank God for writers like you. Really, thank you. Thank you
Oh Susan, thank you for sharing your pain. Isn’t it incredible how shocking this early loss follows us for the rest of our lives? We carry this trauma forever and are affected by it no matter how old we are. I am so glad you enjoy reading my articles and fully resonate with the Daddy & daughter bond. I will soon start a cadence of calls to hold space for us, where we can grieve & heal together and not be alone. I look forward to staying in touch. blessings, Hissi