Ten Years

On December 7, 1998 my dad died. It was very sudden. He was only 51 years old. He died of a massive heart attack while sitting in his favorite chair at home, alone except for his favorite cat that his wife found curled on his lap when she arrived home and found him.

I can hardly believe that it's been 10 years. In the beginning, when he died, I remember the distinct feeling of suffocating, of literally not being able to breathe. In the days and weeks that followed, my grief was profound. I had never lost anyone close to me before, and I felt as if a part of me had died with him. I couldn't imagine ever being able to smile again, and I couldn't understand how the sun could keep rising and setting every day, and how people could go on with their daily lives as if nothing had happened, when my whole world had been turned upside down.

~~~

My dad, Joseph Ernest Hammers, was no saint. The truth is, he was a pretty crappy father when I was growing up. He was only 20 when I was born, his second of 3 kids that were to come in the span of 3 years. He and my mother were so young and clearly not ready for marriage or raising a family. He was an alcoholic since before I was ever born. He was abusive and absent a lot. I grew up being afraid of him - his temper, especially when bolstered with alcohol, was a truly frightening thing to behold. But I was also in awe of him. He seemed bigger than life, and I wanted his love and approval, I think, more than anything.

In my teenage years, we went through a few bouts of not speaking. Somehow, though, in my adulthood, he and I made peace and managed to forge a friendship, and we became very close. I really can't say how it happened. I know he became reflective when he got a little older, and he had a lot of remorse about the kind of father he had been. It's not too hard to forgive someone who sees where they've messed up and genuinely feels sorry for it.

So for about 10 years I had a really good relationship with my dad. He never overcame his drinking problem, but at least he no longer became violent and mean when he drank. He turned into a sloppy, emotional drunk. But he was my dad, and he treated me with kindness and respect, and actually was my biggest fan for a good chunk of time. We talked on the phone at least a couple times a week. He would drive down from Santa Cruz and visit us, and he would buy a plane ticket for me to fly up to visit him, and we would hang out, cook, eat, ride their horses, and he even taught me how to shoot a gun.

Here are some things I remember about my dad: he was sarcastic and could always make me laugh. He always told me how proud he was of me. He loved a good dirty joke, and had no qualms about passing them on to me. He was extremely bright but very down to earth. He was humble. He never tried to impress anyone, and was never impressed by anyone who boasted or put on airs. He was kind of a throwback to the 60's/70's . . . an aging hippy sort. I always thought my dad was way cooler than other people's dads because he was young and handsome and he rode a motorcycle. He had a beautiful singing voice and could belt out Elvis and Roy Orbison tunes like nobody else. He called me "Lolly" from the time I was born until he died. He was a huge fan of Laurel & Hardy and The Honeymooners. He could fix or build anything, it seemed. He taught me how to ride a bike. Family lore has it that he potty trained me when my mother couldn't. When I was a kid, he used to pay me a quarter to walk on his back. His presence filled the room even when he wasn't saying a word. His hugs felt like they would swallow you up. He was the only person to support me when I continued to nurse Kevin past a year. Everyone else was giving me a hard time about it by then, so I went into hiding with it and became a closet nurser. My dad was down visiting us and he caught me hiding upstairs and nursing Kevin and he said "You don't have to hide that from me, and you don't have to explain yourself to me. I know you're doing what's best for that little boy." He hated all the feuds going on in our family and his greatest hope was to see everyone mend fences, which, sadly, did not happen. He got to be in Kevin's life for almost 2 years, and he was proving to be a much better grandfather than he had been a father. Kevin called him "Papa Joe." Joey is named after my dad. My dad lived hard and abused his body to the extreme. When he died, it was a shock, but not really surprising I guess. I felt like I had been waiting for him to die for years, just because of the way he lived.

He got sick on Thanksgiving, 1998. I remember talking to him on the phone that day and he said he wasn't feeling well. I got a call from my brother later saying that Dad was in the hospital. Apparently he had collapsed in his kitchen (his wife was out of town at the time, so he was alone), but managed to call a friend who came over and called 911. He was rushed to the hospital and found to be hemhorraging internally. After several transfusions and tests, he was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease and he spent about a week in the hospital. When he was released, he was weak and exhausted, but his doctor expected him to make a full recovery. It was only a few days later that he died.

I still miss my dad deeply. There will always be an emptiness in my heart. If I concentrate, I can still hear his voice. I wish he could know my kids, and they him.

I no longer believe in God, or heaven or hell. I believe that the afterlife is remaining in people's memories. That's where we go when we die . . . we live on in people's hearts and memories. And that's where my dad is. He lives on in me and in my kids too. I see glimpses of him in my kids - a facial expression here, a mannerism there.

Here's his senior picture from high school. He was so handsome!

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This is me and my dad in 1995. He was 48 and I was 28.

This was the last picture taken of Kevin and his Papa Joe.

It was October, 1998, just a couple months before my dad died.

I've noticed a strong resemblance lately between Lilah and my dad.

She's got his eyes and the Hammers nose.