It's September 1989 in Woodhaven, Queens, NY. At the time, I am 13 years old, a bit OLD for just learning how to ride a bike, now that I think of it. Across the street from the apartment complex where I grew up is my elementary school, PS 60. It's a 3 story building, I believe. There is a huge concrete slab....area....space? where we would be let out for recess after lunch
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There was a playground on the property, but during school hours it was closed off to the kids. There was a towering wire gate that separated the concrete play area from the playground, along which were 3 basketball hoops. Big whoop for a little girl. I remember there were benches under some trees in one corner that were shady where all the "cool kids" hung out at recess. A few feet away was always a chalked in hopscotch board that the "cool kids" would play. I was never one of them. I was always trying to blend in somewhere and hide. That rarely worked. It was usually quite the opposite, I was commonly found being singled out and picked on by groups of kids. I distinctly remember a group of boys, some of them younger than me, who would be at the basketball courts, and would just WAIT for me to come into ear shot so they could take turns pointing out all the stains on my clothes. Picking on me was so easy, I would just take it. Stand there and take it. Never once do I remember ever standing up for myself, rather I would absorb every single mean word. I never hated these kids, I never even disliked them, I simply just wanted to be left alone, to hide somewhere and never be looked at again. I was so painfully shy, and I am not really sure why. I could venture to guess that the situation I was in at home had something to do with it, but I am no therapist, so I have no clue why. On weekends and evenings that huge concrete area was opened to the public. It was commonly used as a cut through from 88th to 89th Avenue. There would ALWAYS be numerous basketball games being played and lots of kids roller skating, riding bikes or just running around. This is the place that I learned how to ride a bike. I am quite certain it was not my bike, although I could be wrong. I was in the park with a good friend of mine and maybe a few others. This friend was someone who also lived in "the buildings", she was a year or so older than me and was someone I just adored. I assume she decided on this day that it was high time her friend could ride a bike with her throughout the neighborhood. I am going to guess the date, it was either the 29th or 30th of September, I will never forget... I was riding a bike for the first time ever, feeling the cool wind in my hair, I turned around to look for my friend, who I thought was still holding on the to banana seat, she was not there. I WAS RIDING A BIKE. I could see her standing way back near the entrance to the playground with at least one other person, but I cannot remember who that person was. I only remember riding back to my friend, on cloud nine, feeling elated and so proud of myself and the first words out of their mouths are "I am so sorry about your father, Robin" to which I reply "what? why"? ~~~ brief silence ~~ "he died, my mom just told me" Every single time I think about this day I am filled with questions. How can THIS be the way I find out my Daddy died? How do THEY know before me!? How dare they know this!? Why am I at the park riding a bike when obviously someone knew this had happened?! I didn't find out til later that my Mom was absolutely destroyed by this and she just did not know how to tell me. She had been speaking to another Mom from the buildings, and somehow the word just spread like wild fire. I suppose now would be a good time to rewind a bit and tell you about the events leading up to this. This is one of the most painful stories I will ever tell. I spent nearly 20 years after hearing those words "he died.." blaming myself for his death. In my mind, all of the events leading up to that moment were directly caused by me. . . .
It was a cool September night 1989, way past my bed time, but yet there I was in the courtyard of the apartment building playing. I wish I could remember WHAT I was doing specifically, aside from avoiding my apartment at all costs. I was probably playing house within the roots of that tremendous tree in the corner, maybe pretending to be a mama who was putting her babies to sleep, where I should have been. I knew I had no business being out so late. Whatever I was doing, I remember one thing clearly: I had to pee, and I had to pee BAD. At the time my Mom was not home, I don't know where she was, We had a woman staying with us, in my parents room, I cannot remember her name, but she had been staying there for a while. My mom made a habit of taking in strays. This was actually one of her most endearing qualities, her ability and desire to help any and everyone. It didn't matter that she didn't have anything to offer, to her, the roof over her head counted for something, and she was always willing to help a friend in need. All of the people she helped throughout the years were also drug addicts like her, so, that doesn't make for the safest environment for 3 little kids, but when they were there, they were like family. We were all hungry together. Luckily for us, nothing seriously bad ever happened, I like to think that my mom was a pretty good judge of character, even when high. So, here I am, playing in the courtyard, late at night, and I have to pee. I go to the buzzer, find E11 and ring our secret family buzz. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum....Dum...Dum. Nothing, no answer. I ring several more times, my bladder getting heavier by the minute. No answer. RIIIIIIIIIIING - RIIIIIIIINNNGGG - RIIIIIIIIING. No answer. OK, now this is serious, I am about to pee my pants. I run over to my parents bedroom window and start throwing rocks at it "Cmon, let me in! I have to pee"!! Nothing. FINALLY, what feels like years later, my moms friend who was staying with us peeks out the window and sees me. I am pretty sure at this point I was not exactly nice to her. WHY hasn't she let me in? Is she DEAF? Can't ANYONE hear the damned bell ringing!?? I get the buzz in, I run inside the building and open my apartment door and what I see has me completely forgetting that I ever had to pee to begin with. My Dad is laying at the end of the hallway, which is almost the entire length of the apartment, at the place where the doors to the kitchen, living room and my bedroom meet. In that fairly small space is a dresser. Why there is a dresser in this random place, who knows, but there it had been for as long as I can remember. At the base of the dresser is where my Dad lay. I walk in towards him and when I get close I see that his leg is broken. No, it's not really broken, It's completely bent up and backwards, so that his knee is facing the wrong way and his foot is at his head. There is no blood, No tear to the skin. It was like he was made of bendable rubber, like those posable Easter Bunnies. This is an image that will live in my brain til the day I die. This is the precise moment when I heard that inner voice for the very first time "you did this. If you hadn't been ringing the bell like a maniac, he wouldn't have fallen. If YOU hadn't had to pee, none of this would've happened. If you, if you, if you...." This moment, and this night would haunt me for decades. It still haunts me, even now, as a reasonable adult who has been through therapy to work through it, it still haunts me.
No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened next. The next thing I remember happening happened DAYS later, For many, many years, until I was an adult, I would have sworn that my next memory happened immediately after me finding him, but I was wrong. My Dad had survived that fall. The last time I ever saw my dad was from across the courtyard, looking through the window of a neighbors apartment where my Mom dropped us off before an ambulance came to pick up my Dad. I remember looking through the window and seeing him in a wheel chair being wheeled through the courtyard to an awaiting ambulance at the street. That was the last time I ever saw him. This was days after the fall, he had been admitted to the hospital to be treated for the broken leg. My Mom spend most of her time at the hospital, where he stayed for a couple days. She would come back to the apartment for stuff and ask me to come back with her. I always said no. I can't remember why I didn't want to but I can guess it was because of the guilt I felt. Why would he want to see ME, I'm the one who put him there. It was one of these days that my Dad was at the hospital that I was learning how to ride a bike in the park at PS 60.
Again, I lose days. All I remember after hearing this news is the pain and anguish my Mom was going through in every minute of the day and every detail of planning a wake and a funeral. Of course, we couldn't afford any of this. So, my Dad's parents took over the arrangements, leaving my Mom with the mundane task of what should she wear. I remember this being a very big issue. She was absolutely distraught over what she was going to wear. The Mom of my friend who taught me how to ride a bike ended up lending her a black one piece pants suit. It's funny the things you remember in times of grief. That jumpsuit with my mom so awkwardly in it is so clear to me, Being that my Grandparents took care of the arrangements, they also provide us with a limo. I am pretty sure I was in some serious denial that day, I was completely numb to the fact that this limo was taking us to my dad's wake. My best friend, Marie and I were so excited to be in a limo. We were playing around, pretending to be celebrities, all while being driven to the funeral home. I wish I could just shake my 13 year old self and say "get it together!! Don't you know where you are going?! Wake up! You're being disrespectful" But, I know that I was just coping the only way I knew how...hide from it and pretend it didn't happen. The next thing I remember is walking into the funeral home, kinda giggly and awkward and walking into the room where my Dad was layed out. The earth stopped moving. Everything stopped. Nobody else existed in that second but the body of my Dad laying in a coffin at the front of the room. Welcome to reality, Robin.
Another flash memory: Standing at the grave site on the day of the funeral with my Mom. Her arms are around my shoulders and she is holding me close. This is the first time I remember her talking about her father, she tells me she too was 13 when her "Daddy" died, that she knows what that feels like. She's telling me that I will always be Daddy's little girl. No matter what, no matter where he is, or where I am or how old I am, I will ALWAYS be Daddy's little girl. This is the first time I cried about losing my father. Not only did I cry, I was hysterical, uncontrollable in my Mama's arms.
What I wouldn't give at this very moment, right now to have her loving arms around my shoulder the way she did that day. I think somehow she knew that I was blaming myself, even though I never spoke a word of it to anyone. I think that is why she was trying so hard to make me visit him in the hospital.
The days, weeks, months after that day took such a terrible toll on my Mom. She was absolutely heart broken. I would find her on the floor in rooms all over the house, in a ball, sobbing and crying out for her "Bobby" to come back. For me personally, I don't even remember. I can't remember how I felt, I think I retreated back into that safe hideout in my head. Hide from it and it doesn't exist.
It wasn't until many, many years later that I began questioning how my dad died. As a child, I guess a broken leg can seem like a reasonable reason, but as an adult, not so much. As horrific as that break looked, how did that cause his death. Well, by the time I started asking questions, it had been so many years and the story kind of got lost and fragmented. What my Mom told me is that he was admitted for the break in his leg, and was administered a blood transfusion. According to my Mom, there was another patient in the same hospital with almost the exact same name, but the first and middle name transposed, and that my Dad was given the wrong blood, causing a hemorrhage in his brain. By the time I was given this information, it was almost a decade later, and I just didn't know how to process it. I asked my Mom if she ever saw a lawyer, and she said she did, but the thought of my Mom working with a lawyer was almost laughable. Besides, I just didn't know what to believe. The autopsy, which my mom ordered copies of after, showed the hemorrhage, but made no mention of the blood mix up. It did however show that he had pretty late stage lung cancer. Is that any kind of condolence? No. My Dad had been walking with a limp and a cane for a few days or weeks prior to him breaking his leg. Maybe the cancer had some hand in that? Maybe it was the drugs abuse. I will never know, nor does it really all matter now.
I've worked all the feelings of guilt that surrounded my Dad's death out in therapy a few years back. I know that I was not to blame for his death. I understand that. Truly, I do. Yet, I will always get a little ping in my heart, lungs and belly when I talk about it. The remnants of a deep, dark, grotesque wound, now but a tiny scar.
My Dad was 40 when he died. Actually, he was barely 40. He turned 40 on September 15th, 1989 and died exactly two weeks after that on September 29th. I originally planned on writing this in September 2014, less than 18 months before my 40th birthday. I cannot believe how strange that feels. When I talk about my Dad I will always be 13 years old.
