Part 3 of My Purpose Story

So here we are…part three. It gets better right? Nope, not yet. “Mike” was the tremor before the earthquake.

But, please, don’t feel sorry for me. I know I don’t. I am NOT a victim. I REFUSE to call myself one. This was part of my purpose. Through all my years of training and strengthening my self-awareness, I can now see God’s path has been perfect. Trust me…I will get there, but for now let’s get back to that 19-year-old girl who lost her path (and so much more) along the way.

The summer that “Mike” and I broke up, I felt very ashamed. I was embarrassed for allowing myself to be treated this way. How could I have been so stupid? To be honest, there is so much more that happened between me and “Mike” that I have not shared. There are so many things that my mind has blocked out in order to protect itself. I have thought about seeing a hypnotherapist to help me unlock it all, to see if the nightmares will stop. To be honest, I think it’s best I don’t remember everything. The mind protects itself for a reason. Maybe I will let sleeping dogs lay. Anyway, back to my purpose.

My parents never fully confronted me about “Mike.” I think they were too afraid to really know the truth, coupled with the fact that we are Mexican, and it is easier to keep family secrets in our culture. I tried to move on with my life. I channeled my natural born resilience to help me, but the truth is, I needed a professional. That summer my dad was getting sicker. He had been diagnosed with Cirrhosis to the liver. He was in the end-stage of the disease. What did this mean? I don’t know. He was in that stage for years. The difference was, now he was getting weaker. He was moving slower. He needed a liver transplant in order to survive. He was placed on the list, so I was sure our day would come.

I couldn’t get “Mike” out of my head. It was like I had a sick obsession with him. I was so engulfed in the mistreatment and disrespect, that I didn’t know any better. He used to tell me that I wouldn’t find anyone who could love me more than him. I believed him. There were times that I faltered, and I would answer his phone calls. After several weeks I would slowly let him in, and then boom the monster would emerge. SHIT! Again?

I had to do something. I had to get away from my little town. All of my friends were gone. I missed the deadline to apply to college because “Mike” would “miss me too much.” Oh and did I mention that he never graduated high school? He had spent his senior year so obsessed with me that he spent more time at my school then his own. I was stuck. We both were.

It was September now, and my best friends had all moved to Seattle. All four of them rented an apartment and were starting over in the big city. I needed to go. I asked if they could make room for me. They did. They don’t know this, but they were my guardian angels at the time. They helped me in in more ways than they know. I told my dad that I was thinking of moving. I was a daddy’s girl and he was very sick. I was sure he would say no, but he didn’t. I told him I was afraid to leave him. I didn’t want anything to happen to him. He told me that I couldn’t put my life on hold for him. I think deep down he knew I was running. I was afraid to tell my mom. She was the scarier parent. She was pissed. Even though I was 19 and of legal age to make my own decisions, in the Mexican culture, age is nothing but a number. She expected me to leave for college, not to party with friends. I told her my mind was made up. I wonder if she would have felt different if she knew why I was really leaving. My dad said he would talk to her. He gave me a kiss and helped me load my suitcase into my two-door Honda Civic. My mom didn’t come out of her room. I told him to tell her bye for me. He smiled and told me to have a safe drive.

The rest of that summer was incredible. I had changed my number. There was no way for “Mike” to reach me. I shared a tiny room with my best friend. We got on each other’s nerves of course, but that was normal. I started working two jobs to make ends meet. I was tired a lot, but I loved it. I had many sleepless nights with my friends, I met other boys that took my mind off “Mike”. I was buying my own food, my own toilet paper. I was doing it! I was living my 19-year-old girl’s dream in the big city! Occasionally, I would check in with my parents and my dad would tell me that he would have to take the phone of the hook because they were getting tons of prank calls in the middle of the night. We both knew who was calling. He told me not to worry and to have fun. My time in Seattle only lasted five short months. I got a call in February that would seal my fate. My parents were on their way to the hospital; my dad’s lungs had filled with fluid for the third time that month. Shit. This is bad. “I gotta go” I told my friends. Little did we know that I wouldn’t be coming back.

The drive home was the worst. It took me over five hours. The roads were icy. It was foggy. I couldn’t see. I spent the whole time praying to God. My mom told me to go back, she was afraid that I would get in an accident. I told her no. My intuition wouldn’t let me go back. I knew deep down something was wrong. This didn’t feel like all the other times he was hospitalized. When I got there, my dad was in good spirits, but he looked extremely ill and yellow from the jaundice. He cracked jokes in between heavy breaths. That man was the king of all things jokes and laughter. I held his hand. He told me he would be fine. He told me to take care of my little brother. He was nine. I told him to “shut up,” in those exact words. I told him he wasn’t going anywhere, and that he needed to stay positive. He just smiled and said “okay.” We had a family meeting with his doctor. They said he had one month to live. They were going to prepare to transport him to Seattle by ambulance. I had just made that drive. The roads were icy. I was afraid they would crash with my sick father inside. I went home, packed my parent’s bags, and went straight back. “Let’s go get a liver” I told him.

It was Thursday night when we arrived to the hospital in Seattle. When we got there, we received news that shook us to our core; my dad was not on the transplant list. Are you fucking kidding me? All this time, all this effort, all this FUCKING MISCOMMUNICATION? “Sorry” they said. They didn’t know where the disconnect was. They hurried my dad into a room. I walked straight to hospital’s chapel. It was dim in there. There were lit candles everywhere. A few desperate faces filled the room, but I think mine was the most desperate. It’s okay. “God is good” I thought. We will figure it out. Miracles happen all the time. My dad was only 47. He had so much life left.

The next few hours were blurry. It all happened so fast. By Friday afternoon my dad was in a medically induced coma. There were tubes everywhere. By Sunday night, they told us there was nothing they could do. Every single one of his organs had shut down. Every single one, except for his heart. They called the hospital’s chaplain, and we all prayed around him. We said our last goodbyes. I was mad at him. I was mad at God. But I had to let him go. It wasn’t my choice. They disconnected him. He was gone in just a few minutes. We walked out. I took a few steps, then turned around to go back. I needed to touch him one more time. I couldn’t. They were already zipping him into a body bag. Shit. So fast?! I ran back before the staff could see me. He was gone. It was February 29, 2004, leap year. “Oh dad, what a day to pick to go out with a bang!” I thought to myself.

The next day, my mom and I drove to my apartment. She helped me fill two trash bags with my clothes and shoes. This was it. My dad was gone. He was sick for so long. I wasn’t expecting it. He was so full of life. He had a great sense of humor. End-stage disease meant nothing to me. He had been in that stage for many years and nothing had happened. Then all of a sudden gone. Just like that. “Fuck God” I thought. I prayed and prayed and nothing. I guess prayers don’t work. I told myself I would never pray another day in my life. I said goodbye to my roommates. “I love you guys, thanks for everything.” I grabbed my trash bags, put one arm over my mom’s shoulder and said, “let’s go home mom.” And so, we did…

See you next week for part four of my purpose story.

Please know that if you are currently suffering from grief and loss, you are not alone. There are many helpful resources and articles out there.