A friend of Jimi Hendrix once remarked that they knew Jimi was in trouble when he arrived at a party without his guitar. This was similar to my father, a highly gifted musician who could play any instrument. While visiting my grandparents in Scotland one summer, someone asked him to try the bagpipes. To everyone’s surprise, after only a short while, he was playing them — a skill that normally requires extensive practice to develop.
When I was around twelve, we sat on the porch enjoying a warm summer day. My father made the birds in the nearby forest whistle tunes, not overly complex, but they responded to his whistling. He laughed and smiled. I am now 48 as I write this, and I cannot hold back the tears running down my cheeks. I knew writing about him would be difficult.
The music faded the following summer. He stopped playing his instruments and vocalizing. He became quiet, merely sitting at the kitchen table, smoking his pipe and drinking coffee, with an empty stare. As a vulnerable teenager, I desperately tried to reach him, the Pink Floyd lyrics echoing in my mind: “Is there anybody in there? / Just nod if you can hear me / Is there anyone home?”
He was shutting us out, and I could not understand why. I knew my parents were having troubles, and as an adult, I believe my mother’s narcissistic personality disorder heavily contributed. My father was a handsome, physically strong man, but also very sensitive, like many other artists. My mother was constantly on him, criticizing his inability to earn enough money and his preference for playing blues music over Christian music. He loved the blues, not just as a musician, but also as a listener, maintaining a high-quality stereo system at home, until my mother’s constant complaints forced him to give it up entirely.
The situation deteriorated further. The following summer, my parents divorced. My mother had found pills in his pockets while doing laundry. My father had been self-medicating with opioids for years, hiding it from us. When my mother gave him the ultimatum of choosing between the marriage or the drugs, he chose the latter. Our home was soon sold, and the family broke apart — not just the marriage, but the entire family unit. I was shattered, and I still desperately try to mend the broken pieces, but I cannot.
With the marriage and family broken, there was nothing to stop my father from descending the destructive path he had chosen, full throttle. In the last five years of his life, I would occasionally see him in town, buying amphetamines or whatever he could obtain. Skinny and weary, nearly toothless — a complete slave to the drugs — he did not see me, but I saw him, longing for the father and the summers we had shared before the music faded.
He was so good with children, my father. He made me so many toys — a bow and arrow, a slingshot, a crossbow — anything a little boy could want. And he gave me his warmth. I could see in his eyes how much he loved me. As far as I can remember, he only told me he loved me once, during my childhood. I believe it was the same summer that my parents broke up, my parents had a very heated argument, and out of despair, he grabbed one of the kitchen chairs and completely smashed it.
There were broken, wooden pieces, all over the floor, It was the only time during my whole childhood I can remember him loosing control like this, the only time I ever saw him burst into tears, and the only time I heard him vocalize to me: “I love you so much, son”. He had a breakdown and cried so much he could barely manage to say the words. I had always known they were there, deep inside him. Those words.
I never got to say goodbye to him. One day, I received a phone call saying he had been admitted to the hospital, and I rushed to see him. Due to lung cancer and the debilitating effects of substance abuse, he was placed on a respirator and fell into a coma. We never had the chance to say farewell. Hoping he could hear me, I leaned in close and whispered, “I am so grateful for all the things you gave me, and I wouldn’t have had any other father in the world.” I saw a tear running down his cheek, and I know he heard my words — a response, I hope, not only of sadness but also of joy.
After 14 days, they disconnected my father from life support, as they said he would never be able to breathe on his own again. He had cancer, pulmonary emphysema and a chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The heart monitor flatlined and his warm heart stopped beating, I knew that he had stopped living and had died several years earlier.
Now I’m sitting here with my five-year-old daughter, who my dad never got to see. We cut out figures from paper. Ida, my daughter, has made a beautiful unicorn. I’m looking out of the window towards the apple tree in the garden, while the lyrics of a song by the Dutch artist Ilse de Lange lingers in my head: “I`m making flowers out of paper, because real ones fade away too soon…”
Dad, your music ended too soon.
Oh, Andre! The tears are here and I can't help it.
Tears for the good that was. Tears for the pain of a living with narcissist. Tears for the music.
Thank you for sharing your story even though it was so hard!
I pray God will give you His peace in the tough situations you are in that He only knows.