Yesterday afternoon, the hubby and I headed down I85 South to Greenville, South Carolina and enjoyed a grown up dinner and a Garth Brooks show. As soon as the electric Mr. Brooks took the stage, I found myself cheering, shouting, grinning from ear to ear. This was actually the second time we had seen Garth together, and I knew that we were in for a good time. What made this concert stand out, though, was that this was the first time I had smiled, laughed, felt real joy in many weeks. And, as my spirits lifted, I was acutely aware that this was the exact reprieve I needed from the grief that has been weighing heavy, so heavy, for the past three weeks.
We've all heard the expressions about 'phone calls you never want to receive', and on Wednesday, October 26, I was the unfortunate recipient of such a call. An afternoon of Halloween shopping with my biggest girl was brought to a screeching halt when I heard the news, "Ma'am, I'm sorry to tell you this, but your father, Michael Bowman, is dead." In that moment, it felt as if I'd been punched hard and swift square in the chest, and that feeling of being punched has replicated itself many times since.
He's looking up at me so adoringly.
My mom tells me that he was mesmerized with me from the moment he first held me.
Pictures of a dad and his little girl. He took me out for a banana split on the day I got my first report card, bragged on my important role in the class program, and made me pudding when I was home from school sick. All seems so simple and sweet, yet life in the following years got complicated and things changed.
On my 6th birthday, the next month, he took me to get my ears pierced. We chose the ruby red stones - my birthstone. Last week, Lindsay sat with Murphy, who'd just turned six, as she got her ears pierced. Full circle.
And here we are sitting on his beloved Barracuda afterwards.
Over the next several years, our time together became more limited. Christmases. Birthdays. On the occasional weekends I'd spend with him, we'd recored 'interviews' on my tape player and eat junk food and listen to his records.
Allman Brothers' Eat a Peach.
We'd listen to Melissa over and over.
Such a talented man.
He built me this doll cradle and matching bunk beds. My girls still play with them today.
I look so happy here.
I so desperately want to talk to that little girl and to her daddy.
A new bicycle for my eighth birthday.
I'm 11 here. 6th grade. (I know by the locket I'm wearing.)
I want to talk to this girl, too.
Tell her how much this man loves her even if he isn't sure how to show her.
And then, my teen years hit, and I don't know what to say. He drifted. I drifted. We drifted. At the times we saw each other, I could tell we both felt odd, disconnected. Not like total strangers, but also not like father and daughter. And, now looking through adult eyes, I wonder if maybe that just comes with the territory of being a teenager. I'm not sure, but whatever the reason(s), a distance was formed. Through years of little contact, I never doubted his love for me. He always stressed the value of education, and it was important to him that he pay for my college. He was so proud of me for my grades and always told me so. He and a girlfriend (not wanting that to sound like he had lots of girlfriends over the years, he did not. Just this one for a year or so.) visited me at my first college apartment. When he arrived, I had James Taylor playing. He appreciated my music choice. I'm sure he didn't realize that I'd spent quite awhile searching for just the right music that would make him proud.
And then, I grew up, like all the way up, and got married and moved to Dallas and moved to Denver and started having babies.
Here he is holding his first grandchild, my Carter Lilly.
His blue eyes, my blue eyes.
When I was a young mom of two little girls, I found him on my mind a lot. I reached out to him. Suggested we start a pen-pal type relationship, get to know each other better.
This was his first letter to me.
"No more dysfunction? That will be the greatest gift I've ever received."
It's funny. I remember saying at the time how much easier it would have been if he'd just jump on a computer. Send an email or a Facebook message, but, now, I'm so grateful for his handwritten words and his unique left-handed penmanship.
I am yours, and you are mine.
I hope your kids are making your life worthwhile - I know mine did.
{Dear God, I hope he meant that. I hope I did give his life some meaning.}
The right music can make your day. Just as the right seasoning can make your meal.
I have never forgotten about you. Never have. Never will.
I wish I could say that this back and forth changed more of the day to day of our relationship, but it did not. I'd mention in my letters opportunities for us to get together, but he didn't 'bite'. I can't say for sure why. I do think that this period allowed us to reconnect and get to know each other in a different way.
A Mother's Day note.
I'm proud you are mine. I'm happy that they are yours.
Then, again, we drifted. We reconnected a bit when my grandmother hurt her back and moved into assisted living. During a phone call from her hospital room, he thanked me for being there for her. I simply reminded him that family takes care of family.
She died just over a year ago, at her funeral he commented on how my girls were 'little stair steps' and that Wright looked just like me. I last saw him on the day we said our final goodbye to Grandma Margie. As we left lunch, I gave him a big bear hug. I was newly pregnant with Hatch, and I could see a little twinkle in his eye at the news I was having a son. When I got home that afternoon, I said to Lindsay, "I wonder if I'm ever going to see him again?" I never did.
I texted him from the hospital when Hatch was born. He left me a voice text in which his voice was beaming. I sent him a couple more photos over the next couple of weeks.
A Mother's Day card from this year.
The last time I heard from him.
Do I have regrets? Sure I do. I'd guess there are few people who lose a loved one and don't feel any sense of regret. But, do I know I tried? Yes, I know I tried. Do I wish things had been different? Absolutely.
"Around 1984 the song 'Ghostbusters' came out. It didn't have any meaning or soul.
I turned to country and never looked back. It had enough feelings for any mood."
In the middle of that concert last night, while cheering and smiling and dancing and singing along to Shameless, tears began pouring down my face. It hit me how happy it would make him that I was reclaiming my first moments of joy through music, country music.
His little corner of the world. West Pelzer, South Carolina.
I never stepped foot in his house until after he had left it. Haunting. There's no other word for me to use to describe the experience. I wonder if he had any idea the gaping hole his death would leave. Sometimes, the moments of grief are almost too much to bear. The repetitive, maddening thoughts swirl incessantly. Breathing in and out becomes difficult, and the simple act of swallowing feels like a giant undertaking. I loved him. Deeply.
I hope that in his memory I was always that adoring little girl.