Will my dad’s death be my freedom?
The question is, “When will I set myself free?” My truth is, I don’t know. Maybe you’re thinking, that’s a coward’s way out. It’s easy to say I don’t know instead of facing the question. It’s possible it’s my internal way of avoiding the question altogether. But the truth is the more I think about it, the more I sentence myself to a lifetime of care-taking servitude.
I was born into a typical Ecuadorian family. From the very beginning of being able to learn habits, I was taught to be a caretaker. I was the first born female after all, and it’s my duty to care for my siblings and parents (including and not limited to extended family members) and do house chores; “For as long as you both shall live.”
I was married to my inherit obligations before I was old enough to comprehend what a relationship was or encompasses. Somewhere in history, in our culture, females (children) were created and raised with an obligatory, involuntary innate guilt to place other’s needs first before our own. We were taught, prepped, and molded to harvest the feeling of being a “Bad person” if we consciously decided not to help a family member in need; however big or small the need might be.
Being the eldest of three girls it was, still is, my moral obligation to care for my family. This went on from childhood through to my adult years. In my pre-teen and teen years, it was my job to babysit, help with homework, cook, clean and of course do an excellent job in school. I guess you can say they trained me well.
The last three years have been challenging to say the least. We live in a multi-generational family home. My parents purchased a second home in which I rent the back two floors of the house. We have the kitchen and living room downstairs, and the second floor consists of three bedrooms and one bathroom. Myself, my husband, and our five children live in this portion of the house.
Across the hall are my parents and younger sister. They have an apartment that my dad reconstructed from an indoor garage and workshop area from the previous homeowners. The front two floors of the house are split into a one bedroom apartment on the second floor for my cousin. He’s actually my second generation cousin and my father’s first cousin. This just goes to show you how extended family plays into our daily lives.
And last but not least, the first floor is my dad’s workshop and sanctuary. It’s full from floor to ceiling with tools, mechanical parts, wires, shelves of old die-cast collectible cars, a workbench with a stool, a TV with cable and a fully functioning computer and printer.
As the eldest of my sisters my father told me from a young age, “If something happens to me it’s your responsibility to take care of your mother and sisters.” I recall this statement countless times while I was in high school and college. It always happened the same way, in the same room.
I would be in the kitchen, stirring some white rice on the stove and my dad would be leaning his back on the dark countertops while holding a mug of Folgers black coffee with two sugars. I don’t recall ever replying. I would just listen. That was my role; listen and do what I was told like a good girl.
That good girl got tired of living for someone else and now yearns for a life of her own.
I have a family of my own, we have our own car, our own bills, our own life, but I’m still very much tied to my dad. Imagine this invisible fishing line connecting my heart to my dad’s brain.
Manipulation? Yes, maybe. Brainwashing? Another good possibility. What about stupidity for even entertaining these thoughts and not doing anything about it? Eureka, I think that’s the one!
I’ve been caring for my dad over the last three years in different aspects. He had a household accident in June of 2016 where he fell off a six-foot ladder and fractured some vertebrae’s in his lower spine. Since then I started making his doctor appointments, accompanying him to said appointments, and talking to his doctors about his health. I’ve dealt with his relentless stubbornness to stay off ladders and keep himself from carrying any heavy objects. I make his lunch and endless supply of coffee. And I serve as his companion.
It was an everyday ritual, a routine really. I’d peek into the workshop and yell out, “Dad the soups ready.” He’d respond, “Oh sopita, ya voy.” (Oh soup, I’m coming). The humorous part about this is he always said it in a high pitched voice as if it surprised him every time. His sound effects are something I’ve always loved, and make fun of regularly.
He’d walk in, a seventy year old man with light skin, glasses, a big bushy white mustache and beard, silvery waist length straight hair pulled back into a ponytail under his baseball cap, always dressed in a flannel button-down shirt, tucked into his jeans and belt, a nice rotund pot belly where his buttons would hug onto each other for dear life as they were threatened to be burst apart, and work boots. In his younger years, he was an exact replica of Charles Bronson, he could’ve been his stunt double!
My dad would always sit at the end of our eight foot, wooden oak table (which my husband built himself). I’d serve him his favorite Ramen chicken-flavored noodles and his black Folgers coffee with two sugars. As we sat at the table he’d talk freely about aliens, reptilians, and UFOs. Sometimes he’d talk about his growing up, his memories of his dad, or his mom having to raise eight kids (of which he’s the eldest) after separating from an abusive alcoholic. The subject for the day was always different.
In many ways, I’ve spoiled my Dad over the years. He knows exactly where I hide the chocolate chip cookies, the small dinner rolls that he likes so much, and the croissants. Well, the croissants I don’t buy anymore because he’ll eat the entire twelve-pack in two days.
My mom still works full time as a recreation leader in a nursing home in New Rochelle. And so he doesn’t have anyone else at home to talk to during the day.
I recently mentioned going back to work now that the kids are all in school during the day and his shoulders immediately drooped forward, like a little kid when they get sad or upset. I’ve told him about our dreams of moving to Georgia and buying our very first home down there. His reply after many attempts finally turned into, “Yes, yes that’s good. You need a home of your own.”
Yet this is where the ingrained guilt comes in. If I move away, who will care for my dad? Who will make his coffee, make his soup, and serve as his companion during the day? Who’s going to make sure he’s not climbing any ladders or keep him off the roof? What am I going to do the day I find out he’s ill or worse, that he’s dead? Will I drop everything and fly home? Note to self, I said home. My home would be in Georgia with my husband and my kids. But truth be told my dad is my home. Or do I say this because I’ve been programmed to think this way? What guilt would I feel then?
The thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion that it’s possible my freedom will begin the day my dad passes into the afterlife. My worry about his wellbeing will cease to exist when his body has been laid to rest.
This thought brings so many other questions. Will I finally choose to place myself first or will I choose another family member to look after? I have so many to choose from, my husband, maybe one of our five kids?
With this awareness, you’d think it’d be easy to break the cycle, but the challenge is of astronomical proportions! I’m purposefully choosing to break the chains of bondage that have existed for centuries. I’m going against lifetimes of ancestors. I visualize floating through clouds and levels of different eras, rows of past generations of ancestors who have all done it “This way.”
I’m looking in my own body; on a roller coaster zipping down my muscles and veins, trying to reach this one blood cell, enter into its core, and magically thrust a hammer onto this minuscule particle which in turn will break our curse which has tied us all together through time and space. The guilt will be pulverized into sparkly pink dust and will evaporate into thin air.
We will all be free. A lifetime of women here and in the afterlife looking at each other, walking through skies of glossy white clouds, turning to hold each other’s hands as they walk towards a warm golden sunlight. All with one shared telepathic thought in mind, “Thank you.”
This curse ends with me. My daughters and sons will not be taught to live and breathe in guilt as if it were a normal everyday part of life. They will be taught love; to walk in love, to act in love, and to choose for themselves. There is no wrong choice because we choose to do what is best for ourselves and for others based on love and respect. Through love, I will find my freedom.
Shirley Garzon-Martinez is a clairvoyant empath, divinely sensitive poet and married mother of five. Her programs guide women, especially moms, in breaking free from the debilitating chains of depression. With over a decade of education and experience in social work and elder care, her balance of experience, intuitive insight, compassion, and powerful awareness tools will help transform your life. Visit her Facebook page, Get Up My Lovely, for additional love and support.
