04/12/2022
The biggest pain somehow finds the most concealed place to hide in our minds.
Until today.
Thank you The Layers Project Magazine for your guidance through the writing process and the opportunity to share the story of my healing from grief.
If this story touches your heart ♥️, let me know and pass it along.
Liba's Story: Living & Healing Through Grief
(1/5) "It had been months since I had heard from my father.
It's Friday night, May 28th, 1993. I'm 8 years old and it's 8pm, which means only one thing: I'm perched in my self-designated spot in front of the television for the long-awaited weekly primetime lineup.
I spend a lot of time in front of the TV. From the moment I come home until the minute I take myself off to bed, I'm rooted in front of that luminescent box and all is well in the world. TV is my companion, my teacher, and my best distraction. The TV is the most stable presence in my life.
I'm in third grade at a private Jewish school and while most of my privileged classmates hop into carpools that chauffeur them the short distance home to a nanny, a hearty meal, and a mom, I board a public transit bus with my two older sisters (at the time, they are only 9 and 11 years old). Rain, hail, or shine, we travel an hour by bus and walk another ten minutes home until we can finally spill into our empty house and disperse. I make a beeline for the television where I sit glued for hours accompanied with whatever I can scavenge from the unpredictable cupboards.
On that night, as I make a dash to the bathroom during the commercial breaks, I see that, for the first time ever, my mother has closed the makeshift wooden doors to the kitchen. On the other side of the thin barrier, my mother is sitting at the kitchen table, deep in conversation with two police officers.
Just a few hours earlier, well before my mom arrives home from work, the doorbell rings and I am roused from my cozy spot in front of the TV. I leap up the stairs and call out, "Who is it?"
I can clearly see two cops standing outside my front entrance through the peephole. Suddenly a wave of fear runs through my body and my mind begins to race. In just a split second I consider all the possibilities that would bring the police to my door. Did I do something wrong?
I slowly open the door. The police officer asks if my mother is home. There it is, they busted me. There were no adults around, and if something was wrong, it had to have been my fault.
I brace myself to be reprimanded, "When will she be home?"
"Six," I spit out.
I can't tell if I'm safe or in danger. "We'll come back later," they say. The door closes and I hurry off back down the steps and I dissociate in front of the TV until I hear those voices with my mother in the kitchen later that night.
I was surprised that the policemen came back. I’m not used to men coming back.
When the doors to the kitchen finally open, my mother steps into the hallway and calls out the usual summons "girls!" to round us up. I hesitate at first, considering what I might miss on TV and, truth be told, feeling heavy with an odd sense of unease. Curiosity and the will to please get the better of me and I mechanically bolt up the steps once again. Just before reaching the top of the steps, I trip. As my hands make contact with the carpeted floor, a thought blows through my mind like a sudden gust of wind and I know what's about to happen.
“It's Daddy,” a voice in my head says. “He's either dead or in jail,” and at that moment, I don’t understand either.
(2/5)
My father is the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome type. He is sharp as a tack and his charisma lights up a room. He's a mechanical engineer. I've seen him hotwire a car (this one he owned). He served as a medic in the Russian army and saved his comrade from certain death when a Czech bullet struck him in the neck on the battlefield. My dad fled the USSR alone and immigrated to Canada at the age of 26. He is a lover of music, vodka, and a good adventure. (I'm pretty sure he loves me too, but sometimes it's hard to tell).
When I'm five years old my parents get divorced. My dad moves out of our family home and into the makeshift apartment above his machine repair shop where the air smells like engine oil and tastes like metal. A young blonde appears on the scene and before long they move to an apartment in midtown and just as quickly, they're living in a townhouse in a brand new development north of the city. My father is constantly on the move, but wherever he goes, I follow, until I can't.
I'm seven years old when my dad casually announces that he's "going away" (a well-worn euphemism for flying abroad) and he'll be back next month. The long reign of Communism has ended and business owners in the former Soviet Union finally have some freedom. As a native Russian speaker, my dad boards a plane to Europe in the hopes of cashing in on a seemingly lucrative opportunity. All I know at the time is that our weekly visits are being put on pause and the waiting game advances. The rules of the game: I suffer missing him in silence hoping to be rewarded with the pleasure of a reunion. It used to be that I waited for my dad to get home from work or a business trip, then I waited for my dad to pick me up for our weekly visitations. The separation is always painful, but I had hope that he would return. This time there was no return date.
In the 90s long-distance phone calls are as brief as they are costly. That is why, I'm told, my father only phones at random, once a month, and our conversations are so short. Every time we speak, I ask him when he's coming home, excited by the thought of his return. Just another month, he tells me. Another month passes, and with it a phone call and a delayed promise.
On the 4th of July 1992, I turn eight and it has been months since my father's departure. I have mixed feelings about my birthday in general, but this year the conflict is overshadowed by sheer excitement. Today my father will call and the constant sadness I feel in his absence will be momentarily lifted. The call will be short, but for just a few minutes I will be the only person in his mind and my birthday wish will be granted. He doesn't call. Another small scar on my broken heart.
Days later the phone rings. It's my father and my ambivalence rages.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reluctantly take the phone receiver to my ear. With my head bowed I timidly whisper "hello," and I hear my father's voice on the other end. I want to pause in this fleeting moment. I long for him so deeply, but I am so angry. "I hate you," I want to yell; I want to cry, I want to slam a door in his face. I have so much I want to say, but the only words that come to my tongue are "why didn't you call me on my birthday?"
“Of course, I called you…” he quips back aggressively, too proud to admit his mistake.
I think maybe I've gotten it all wrong, but then again, if he had called I wouldn't feel so hurt.
No, I'm sure of it and for once I'm sure of myself. He gets angry at me and my last memory is of the sound of his deep voice scolding my protest and the faint snap of the last thread.
It's now almost ten months since that conversation but the wound remains fresh and untouched. I'm waiting for my dad's return to reassure me of his love and commitment to me.
(3/5)
The policemen are gone now. I'm back in my kitchen and my sisters are there, too. It's late and this is strange. My mother never gathers us as a family to bring order or awareness. It's kinda nice I think, but experience has also taught me to believe that pleasure doesn't come without pain, so when my mother reluctantly, but clearly says, "Girls, your father died this morning." I'm not surprised, but maybe it's just the shock.
I'm not sure what to do now. There hasn't been an episode on TV that has taught me how to understand this sudden ending.
And so I wait. I wait because I don't know how else to stay connected to my father. I wait because I long for him to reassure me that I'm okay. And I wait because as long as I keep waiting, I don't have to face a reality where he is dead and all hope for his return is lost.
I'm almost sure that this episode will end, the doors will swing open, my Dad will be standing on the other side and my need for a loving, attentive father will be satisfied once and for all.
My father returns in a casket and we bury his body and just as quickly I bury my grief. I instinctively know that there is no vacancy in the hearts or minds of my caregivers for my loss, so I continue to hide my anger and sadness behind a facade of strength and confidence. I so desperately want to feel loved and valued, but every opportunity for connection is laden with the threat of inevitable loss. Denial is my refuge.
Nobody knows it, least of all me, but I spend decades stranded in a raging sea of unprocessed abandonment. Every new connection brings with it the hope for security coupled with the fear of inevitable loss. I ride the waves for over a decade until my first child is born, and suddenly, I become the parent.
**********
Tomorrow we will be posting chapter 2 of Liba's Story: Living & Healing Through Grief. Written by Liba Lurie in The Layers Writing Workshops.
Photos by Shira Lankin Sheps.
Check back tomorrow to read the rest of her story!
