Eulogies and tributes in general paint deceased people in an overwhelmingly flattering light. For some reason, people hold fast to “don’t speak ill of the dead”, at the expense of being honest and realistic.

As a therapist, I want to normalize that human relationships and grief can be complicated. Just because someone has died does not mean that they were saints throughout their lifetime. I believe it is important to be able to be authentic and speak our truth.

In Memoriam: Reflecting on a Complicated Father-Daughter Relationship

With a mix of emotions, I announce the passing of my father, Stephen Frederic McCullough, on January 12, 2024, at the age of 77.

Despite becoming a father to me unexpectedly at 19 years old, Dad did his best to meet his parental responsibilities. He left high school before graduating and went to work as a printer to support our family, providing us with a stable life.

One of the advantages of having a young (and sometimes immature) father was having a buddy always ready to throw a football, ride rollercoasters without becoming sick, or cruise around the neighborhood and nearby sand dunes in our blue 1970’s flower-decaled dune buggy. Dad shared the joys of camping, snow skiing, and waterskiing, an appreciation for nature, and passed on his love for boating to me.

Dad made sure that as a girl, I knew I could do anything. He taught me woodworking, how to change tires and spark plugs, and many other tasks that were considered “man’s work”. I remember spending hours with him in his immaculate garage.

One of my favorite stories: After giving me a 30-second rundown on how to operate a stick shift, Dad sent me out alone in my newly purchased Volkswagen, without a backwards glance. Needless to say, it was not a smooth ride, with the car stalling at every red light, and I found my self back home shortly. Dad imparted another 30-second lecture on proper use of the clutch when stopping. From Dad, I learned not to be afraid of anything or anyone.

In the complicated and messy way that life unfolds, the strong and principled feminist I grew up to be eventually lost patience with Dad’s constant disrespectful behaviors toward women. Through infidelity, he caused pain to all the women he shared his life with, repeating a pattern of disloyalty in both of his marriages and his other relationships.

Our relationship strained under the weight of this, leading to a 25-year estrangement. Three years ago, Dad extended a plea for reconnection, a gesture that seemed to come from a place of regret as he confronted the brevity of time while dealing with lung cancer.

During our in-person reunion at a pickleball tournament, Dad spent hours sitting next to me each day, trying to make up for lost time. We both knew there was no undoing what was already done. I found peace in understanding that his flaws came from his wounds – language deprivation in his early years, low-self-esteem, and becoming a parent before he had matured. It was bittersweet and freeing. I could see that Dad was proud to be my father and my daughter’s grandfather. He was looking forward to a road trip next fall to visit my family and enjoy a boat ride at our lake home.

Unfortunately, the visit did not happen because Dad’s health took a turn for the worse. My biological brother, who lived closer to Dad, was apparently threatened by our reconciliation. He abused his medical power of attorney by preventing me from visiting Dad in his final days. He did this despite Dad already having named me his second medical POA and expressing his desire to talk with me when I saw him briefly in the hospital last month. Although it made sense to name my brother, who lived closer, as the primary POA, Dad sadly did not understand the implications of this, nor did he realize that sibling grudges would surface, resulting in the POA being abused by my neurodivergent brother.

In honoring Dad’s memory, I choose to hold onto the blessing of our reconnection and its significance in the broader tapestry of our lives. May the warmth of this and other happy moments endure, and may they serve as a reminder that, even in the face of complexities, there is always room for healing and shared moments of connection.

References:

https://getcarefull.com/articles/how-to-prevent-power-of-attorney-abuse

https://www.choosingtherapy.com/narcissistic-sibling

https://siblingestrangement.com

https://deafcounseling.com/when-narcissists-use-children

https://llcn.sdsu.edu/team/stephen-mccullough-ph-d/

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Hi, my name is Sandy Graham. I’m from Michigan. My son was shot when he was only 14 years old, back in 1997. He would have been 36 years old today. His name is Saleh (shows name-sign “S” shaking from side to side). What happened was that a boy named John, who was almost 16 years old, found his father’s hand gun in his parents’ bedroom closet. John’s father was a retired police officer and had three hand guns in his closet. There was no lock. John thought that it would be cool to show the gun to his friends, so he invited three friends into his car. My son was sitting in the front and the other two boys were in the back. John asked the three boys to play the Russian roulette game. He first put a bullet in the gun, then removed it. He thought the gun was empty, but there was actually one bullet already inside. He pulled the trigger and killed my son. The two boys in the back were okay.

This hit me so hard and broke my heart. He was such a young boy – he was gone already and would never come back. It was heartbreaking. It was suggested that I go to a grief support group, but I didn’t feel comfortable with that group. One of my close friends, who is hearing and knows sign, Kriya (shows name-sign K moving down right side of head), invited me to meet her friend named Smokey Rain (shows name-sign smoke-rain), who is a half Native American healer. She offered to do a ritual for my son and I accepted.

I had never experienced that Native American ritual before. She asked me to bring one of Saleh’s favorite things, so I brought a large quartz crystal from his desk. We went to the place where he was shot, at John’s parents’ house, to try to reach Saleh’s spirit through a ritual that involved chanting, and bring the spirit into the crystal. Then I brought the crystal home and asked Smokey Rain what to do next. She told me to focus on communicating with my son, so I thought it over and asked my son what he wanted me to do for him. The answer I received was to invite all of Saleh’s close friends from school over, because many of them had always come over to our house to play with my son, joke around, act funny, sign, and other things. Many kids loved him. He played both soccer and basketball. So, I reached out to one of his best friends, a boy, who agreed to come, along with 10 close friends, and my daughter, who was 11 years old at that time.

When Saleh’s friends came over, they felt better just being able to see Saleh’s things in his bedroom. Visiting helped them to feel better and heal. Many of them had been afraid to come over to my house. No one had come over to my house after Saleh died. I felt heartbroken, depressed and all alone. When his friends came over, I felt better. It helped me heal from my grief.

Next, Smokey Rain suggested that I go with her to a Native American community center to celebrate Saleh’s spirit. I went there and played the drums, felt the vibrations and it was such a beautiful ritual. I was filled with gratitude. After this, Smokey Rain suggested that we go to Saleh’s grave for another ritual, which was a truly beautiful one where we let Saleh’s spirit leave the earth and journey into the universe with the wind. I had to accept this and let him go. My grief went on and my healing happened slowly. Almost one year after Saleh died, Kriya invited me to go to a sweat lodge, which helped me feel better and heal from my grief. That was the last part of my journey. I had to go on with my life. I will always love my son in my heart forever.

(video description: Sandy is a light-skinned woman wearing glasses, and a purple top with a black jacket, standing with trees and sky behinder her, signing her story.)

Resources:

https://deafcounseling.com/grief-after-a-murder-grant-whitaker-and-mavrick-martin-fisher/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Russian_roulette

The post Grief: Sandy’s ASL Story of Her Son Being Shot appeared first on Deaf Counseling Center.

Terrylene shares the profound grief she experienced upon her son’s death. 

For me, grief was a foreign word until it comes crashing down on my life. In human being experience and life milestones such as finding love, getting married, first day of school. Grief is part of human being milestones. Grief cannot and will not escape humanity. My world now slashed by a butcher knife, forever disfigured inside. An unknown and uninvited guest moved in with me. And her name was Grief. All my strength drained out as depression sets in. Remembering Gio, my beautiful son. I was going to go out to search for him again.
But the hands kept pushing me back from the door, I am trying to get past to the door to find him. I am looking for him. The policewoman hands kept stopping me. Then it dawned on me, I asked… Is my son. Gone to heaven? (Gesturing). Her head nodded. 
I lost it, I was gone. She kept trying to have me seat. I sat down but then I got right up. I have gone insane. My body was all over the place, leaning down then up. Pacing around non sensible, right, left, up, down, circling. Nothing made sense to me. I did nothing sensible. I was just moving, searching all around. I was looking for a way to connect with him again. Then I saw a window, searching to connect with my son, my hands called out! I kept signing. Dark grey clouds, drizzle rain that wouldn’t go away, leaves moving relentlessly in the chilly breeze. “Archangel Michael!”, my hands called out! “Why didn’t you protect my son? My daddy kneeled and prayed to you.” I saw him asking you to protect my baby son for the rest of his life. You didn’t protect him.” “Gio, where are you?” I signed nonsensibly. Suddenly, the insanity was gone. I looked around the room. There were policemen scrambling in my living room. I told them to get out of my place. I did not want my nine-year-old daughter to wake up to this and become traumatized. 

I hurriedly kicked them all out, shut the door. And the room was all quiet and empty. Time was ticking as she is about to wake. What do I tell her? Your brother has crossed over. Depression stole his life. It engulfed his mind, his body and his soul. How do I protect her from this violent news? My return to sane from insanity was due to my daughter. I am grateful to her for saving my life. In my sane, I thought, what do I do? I felt this presence settling in. Grace embraced me. I have never felt anything like that. All the help that quickly came for me. Friends and family. All the help that quickly came for me. Was I easier to help? Help my son! He needed you. He needed you the most. All my strength drained out. I was wiped out. I was forgetful. I had no memory. Shocked. I could not focus on anything. In this mindless emptiness. I remember two things that happened. A friend who took the time to put vitamin in my mouth. This simple act woke my body to healing. The light bulb went on in my wholeness system. I remembered how I always took care of myself. This self care skills were absent in my life. I realized I have fallen in deep depression. I had to do something to climb back. This was one of the first thing that flickered the “self care” back into my system. The second thing I did for myself was. When someone asked, “Is there anything I can do?” Lost in my abyss world, I would remember the day to say. “Call me on Monday.” Then the next person, “Call me on Tuesday.” Then the next person, “Call me on Wednesday.” Whomever kept their word, called me back. I would force myself to connect. I would force myself to chat. I would force myself to ask them, to take me out for coffee/tea time. Take me out for a walk. It took all of me to get up. It was a total work out to even dress up for just a small event of the day. It was tiring. Somehow over time, my life regenerated bit by bit, returning to normalcy and the society. Since grief absorbed me, living close by like a bay. When the wind come, the wave would rise. It would come and go whenever. Sometimes the wave come unexpectedly. I am forgetful all over again. I could not focus on anything. I make more mistakes. So I remember to rest, to honor myself. I pick up myself again. The cycle starts all over again from time to time. My comfort sin the knowing that I am not alone. Grief comes knocking other doors. I empathize in others’ loss and their pain. I hold compassion for us all. Thank you Deaf Counseling Center for asking me to share with you.

(video description: Terrylene is a light-skinned woman wearing a sleeveless top, standing in front of two paintings and signing.)

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