Even as an adult, knowing that he could no longer hurt me, there was a remnant of fear that would not leave. The worst he could do was yell at me over the phone and tell me how stupid I was. He could no longer really hurt me. But even as an adult, as I heard those words, I felt that same paralyzing fear. He was still, indeed, hurting me.

    I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I was not sexually molested. Or I believe I was not sexually molested. My dad had a horrendous temper and absolutely no patience. At any given moment, for whatever reason, I would be beaten mercilessly. This would happen whether I disobeyed, if I spoke while he was watching a TV program, if I did not do something exactly as I was told, if I spoke at the wrong time, it could be for anything. As I was an only child and all this attention was mine. My special place, where I would spend all my time, would be in my room. There I had a blackboard, my favorite baby doll and her little crib. My very first memory comes at the age of three. That day is still etched in my mind. It is a memory so vivid it could have happened five minutes ago. A little blonde girl crying as if her heart would break while sitting in a rocking chair loving her baby doll. That day I told my little baby that I would always be kind to her. Then I went one step further. I put my baby doll in her little crib. I stood up and that day I took an oath all by myself in my room that I would never, ever treat my child as I was being treated. This is the way I grew up.

    My dad lived with his own hurts, his own disappointments, and although his father had died when he was eight years old, he also had suffered severe treatment from him. It was not just the beatings themselves that hurt. It was the hatred I saw come from his eyes. When he was angry with me I would receive silent treatments. For months at a time he would not acknowledge me, just as if I did not even exist. I remember begging for forgiveness, getting down on my knees in front of him sobbing. He still would not forgive me. He would eventually lighten up as a couple of months went by and oh, how happy I was when he would finally speak to me. I would know that forgiveness was finally on its way. I always wanted him to be proud of me, but there was literally nothing I could do to make him happy.

    My dad was a victim of his own life, of his own hurts. He was a victim of his not being able to make friends, of his not belonging, of his not succeeding in life. He never got it that to achieve all these things, it was he who had to change. And because he never got it, I never got it, until I was well into adulthood. Once grown and married with my own children, I really did believe that I had escaped those terrible bonds. Outwardly I was living life successfully and happily. I made sure I was a good mother. In fact, if I ever had a decision that needed to be made with regard to my own children, I would think, "What would my parents have done?" And then I would do the complete opposite. But no, I hadn't escaped those bonds at all. That old demon had made himself comfortable in my life and I did not realize that he was my constant companion. I had no idea that I was still living in fear. I had never let go of the fear since that day when I was three years old. It took years of therapy to get over the anxiety and panic that hit me at the age of 31. After working hard on myself for close to ten years, yes, I became a totally different person. But there was still that remnant of fear. It was so deeply imbedded that it would not leave. I had learned to function without the panic attacks. I had a new perspective of life, things were changing, new paths were opening, and although I would do all I could to overcome my demon, when having to face my dad, I would still cringe in fear.

    He never knew it though. As far as he knew, I was my own person, doing what I believed was right without the slightest bit of fear. That angered him terribly. One day while at work, I received a letter from him in the morning mail. The place and timing for this letter could not have been any worse. You could say it was a "Dear John" letter. In my case a "Dear Luella" letter. In that letter, he informed me that he and my mother wanted nothing to do with me ever again. That I was not to write back, ever call again or have any communication of any kind ever again. My heart broke as I read that letter. I wanted to break down and sob. I wanted to give up. But I was at work. I had to maintain my composure. So that day I walked about and did my duties as if a terrible illness had suddenly overtaken me. I felt as if he had full force kicked me in the stomach. You see, even though as a child I thought I hated my dad, that I hated him so much that I would pray that he would be in a car accident and die before he got home that night, I never really hated my dad. I was merely very fearful of him. I actually loved him very much and I wanted so much better for him. I felt so sorry for him. He had no friends and, except for my mother, was all alone in the world. I tried to show him a couple of times how he could be happy but all I got in return was his full wrath.

    I then went on to do the only thing I could do. I accepted this fate and went on with my life. But even then my closest companion, this small hint of fear, still clung on to me.

    For ten years, life went on as normal. Then one day, my mother called me. My dad was very ill. My dad wanted to see me. He had Hotchkins Lymphoma and at this point would have two more months on this earth. I went to Florida and spent a week with him in the hospital. I will never forget that week. I think that was the finest week we ever spent together. And no, it wasn't because we got along, because he hadn't changed. It was just because it was my dad and me and I took care of him that week, and in a very strange way we bonded. There were times when he was lucid and himself, and there were times that he didn't know anything. During those times that he didn't know who I was, he was the sweetest person on earth. Those are the sweetest memories I have of my dad. We would sit together and talk, and laugh, and visit. Then he would see little boys in the room that weren't really there, and I learned to go along with him. And the sweetest memory I have of all, was one day when he asked me, "Who are you?" I answered, "I am your daughter." He said, "What's your name?" I replied, "My name is Luella." A few minutes went by and he asked me, "What is your last name?" I told him that my last name was "May." Then the sweetest thinking expression came over his face and a little bit later he asked, "If your last name is May, then how can you be my daughter?" I explained to him that I was now grown and married. I don't know why, but I hold this conversation as my dearest moment with him ever.

    When he was lucid, things were not the same. He was very cruel and hateful. At this point, he was extremely weak and was not able to get up by himself. As I tried to tell him he had to wait for a nurse, he royally told me off. His tirade started with the words, "Who do you think you are . . ." and was followed by so many terrible ugly hurtful things. I tried to maintain my composure, but I knew that was impossible. Tears were starting to fill my eyes and I knew I was going to start sobbing uncontrollably. As I did not want to cause a scene, I slowly got up and closed the door to his room. I then, for once in my life, let it all out in front of my dad. Uncontrollably sobbing, I just yelled at him, "I DO THESE THINGS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!" and continued my uncontrollable sobbing. Everything changed at that moment, his next words were, "Honey Bunch, Honey Bunch, I was just kidding. Don't take it seriously." This was the closest he ever came to telling me that he loved me. For the rest of the day, every time a doctor or nurse came in, in a jovial mood he would tell them how silly I was and how I took his little teasing so personally. This was quite different.

    I stayed with my dad for a whole week. I never left his side. I slept in the same room with him. This gave my mom a chance to go home and get some much needed rest. Then, the moment came when I had to go back home. That was a bittersweet moment. My dad cried. This is the very first time I had seen him cry. I cried. I told him I would be back. He looked straight in my eyes and said, "No. This is goodbye forever." Again, I felt that same full force kick in my stomach that I had felt so many years before.

    I never intended that moment to be "Goodbye Forever." I had every intention of seeing him one last time before he died. But he knew. As he was nearing the very end of his life, my mother called. I immediately left work and made arrangements to go see my dad, one last time. One last time when we could be friends. One last time when I could tell him "I love you" and maybe, just maybe, he would tell me that he loved me. I raced to the house, packed a few things to head for the airport. A friend called to give me her condolences. When I hung up I saw that I had a voicemail. It was a nurse at the hospital. She wanted me to call her back. I then knew that my dad had been right. I had already said goodbye to him, forever. After recovering again from that all too familiar full force kick in the stomach, I called the nurse back. Yes, my dad had passed away. And I do so hope that wherever he is, he is much happier and so much more fulfilled than he had been on this earth. I talked to my mother and told her to hang on, that I would be there in five hours.

    My dad's funeral reflected his life. Have you ever given a party to which no guests attended? This was the viewing and funeral that no one attended. There he was laying in his casket. To my surprise, he had the sweetest look on his face, as a baby sleeping. I turned around and looked behind me. This was one of those moments that I needed to experience, to feel, to always remember. I saw a room with empty chairs. I turned around and let out a deep sigh. Out loud I said to him. "Look, this is it. This is your life." And then I looked at his dead body that looked ever so sweet. How, I have no idea. And as I stood looking at him, I said, "It is finished." I turned around, took my mother's hand and walked away forever. We walked to our car, as if walking into the sunset in one of those wonderful old time movies. My mother and I would be starting our own lives together.

As we walked towards this new life, I noticed that I was much lighter. My load wasn't quite as heavy as before. That fearful companion of mine had also left my side. It had also said goodbye forever. I had finally been set free.