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Surviving Grief:
Mars Hill Student Faces her Father's Death
by Meg Currier
Me and my dad, Bill Currier, in front of our airpark property where he often flew.
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June 26th, 2005
Retired Lt. Col. of the US Air Force, age 67, dies testing friend's home-built plane. Engine Failure suspected. Pilot killed on impact.
Two summers ago, my world fell apart. It broke beneath my feet and I fell. I fell on the dark, Charleston city concrete, but all I remember is falling.
I got a call from my sister at midnight. I was moping around my room, trying to go to sleep, knowing I had to get up early the next morning to be at my work post five blocks away. I had been in Charleston, S.C. for almost two months now, and recently I'd been looking forward to my parents visiting that weekend. I'd bragged about it to my best friend living up stairs, and to my new boyfriend, who lived a few miles away.
I thought when my sister called, saying she was in town and wanted to see me, that she had come here on business.
Excited to finally have some company on this particularly dull day, I threw on some clothes over my nightgown and ran down the stairs, outside the building, and down the sidewalk, eagerly watching for her.
There she was, but she wasn't alone. Her boyfriend and our mom were with her. And as they marched toward me, with careful, determined steps, my heart jumped into my throat as I froze in my steps. It was a death march. The air reeked of it.
Immediately, I started thinking my dog had died. She had been the only pet I'd ever had and ever wanted. Toying with these thoughts as the three got closer, my heart was racing and fear clouded all my senses.
Mom approached me, with tears welling in her eyes.
"Meg...."
I hung off of every word.
"Something has happened to dad. He's been in an accident."
It seemed to take hours before I could reply.
"What...what! Well what are we doing!" I finally shouted in anger and sheer panic. "We have to go!! Right now!! Where is he?! I have to see him! We have to get to him! What happened?!? Is he okay...?"
A tear rolled down her face as she replied
"He's dead."
The next thing I remember is being scraped off the sidewalk and dragged inside. The shouting and crying were echoing in my head like a nightmare.
It was a nightmare.
Oil pastel painting that I drew for a recent class assignment.
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They took me back home that night, and the entire way home all I did was choke on what was left of my tears.
The next few weeks I wasn't alive. I was a robot, breathing, walking, eating, performing my natural human functions. The house was constantly filled with people bringing food and condolences like a sick ritual. To me it was like a plague. They wouldn't go away or leave me to my despair.
My four siblings, arriving from all over, ranging from ages 19 to 42, along with my mother, planned and attended the calling, the burial, and the two funerals, one in our current home state of South Carolina, and the other in Vermont, where dad had grown up.
The whole time I thought it was a joke; no, he'll come walking up those steps any minute and wonder what the hell we're doing, shouting, "thanks for the party!" But, of course, he never came.
Most nights, my brother and closest sister would leave the discussion and walk out on the porch. They'd smoke and chew their dip, as I'd stand by to try to indulge in their lame attempts at jokes. Anything to get through.
Days turned into more days. Time stopped existing. And two weeks later, after the Vermont funeral and burial in the gravesite next to his parents, I was back in Charleston.
I went through the motions. Job schedules, meals, and sleep, trying to ignore people's attempt at pity-They didn't know me, and they certainly didn't know my father.
Inevitably I snapped all over again. It didn't help that my boyfriend had broken up with me earlier that night, reflecting the same misunderstanding for my situation as I felt most of my "friends" held to. So fed up with being there, being anywhere, I quickly packed a bag of my stuff and headed for my car. It was one o'clock in the morning, but I didn't care.
I just wanted my father back again.
Half way to my sister's house, on the Interstate, death stared me in the face. A tree had fallen across the road a few moments before. Ripping through its branches at 75 miles an hour, not knowing what it was or what was on the other end, my car and five others collided in a domino effect, piling up on the shoulder. My car was totaled, though I came out mostly unscratched.
I wish I could say after cursing God, after finally getting home at 7 a.m. with no fight left in me, that it was over. But a person from work called. They didn't believe what had happened. They said they'd have to turn me in for not coming to work. I'd probably be fired.
I quit.
I spent the rest of my summer at home, where, as the days went by, the house became an empty battlefield between me and my mother.
Finally I came back to school. It was like a ray of sunshine on that cloudy day. There was some sort of hope. I could get away. Have a refuge. No one had to know my story. I could have a life again. Have friends and even a schedule. Anything that kept my mind off of the truth.
Avoiding it was the easiest thing to do after all.
Today, as I sit here typing, I'm a different person. I was handed a choice, in all my despair and anger: Either give up or keep trying.
And do you know what kept me from giving up? My father.
Me and my dad celebrating an early Father's Day at home.
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Dad, himself, knew what it meant not to give up. He had gone from being a kid born at the end of the depression in a small town in Vermont, to graduating from the Air Force academy, being a fighter pilot, teaching in the Air National Guard, teaching community college math, raising my other siblings, and going practically penniless through graduate school, all before I was born. What I remember, though, is when he spent so much of his time taking care of me and one of my sisters while keeping only a part-time teaching job and entertaining many of his hobbies while we were growing up.
"It doesn't get any better than this," he'd humbly say to me, lying back in his lawn chair, gazing out at the view, smoking his cigar.
Carrying his memory in my mind, whether I accepted his death or not, it was a solid fact that I missed him and, to me, the only way to bring him closer was to keep him inside me. And as he was my teacher, my coach, my friend, my spiritual and mental advisor, his voice was inside my head, telling me to never give up. And I knew if I gave up, I'd only loose him more.
Believe it or not, that first semester back I did better in school than I'd done all the other semesters. I kept hearing his voice in my head, telling me he was proud of me. They were the words I'd always reached for, and I wasn't about to give them up. Not now. Not ever.
Reader Comment:
Caron Henz, parent, 9/14/2006, 9:10 a.m.
Meg: Your story is very beautiful and a wonderful tribute to your dad. Yes, I believe he will always be with you, guiding you, - and always listen to the voice in your head and heart, because it is him. Be proud of yourself, because I am. -Sincerely, Another MHC Mom
Jamie Ballance, Class of 2004, 9/28/2006, 1:10 a.m.
Meg, --I am glad that you have shared your story with us all. I know that your dad will always be with you, no matter what. Remember to be strong, and always remember the good times!
Good Luck this year! Missya!
Neill Johnston, 10/17/2006, 4:41 p.m.
I was really touched by Meg Currier's story, of how she survived her father's death, and how she was so empowered to allow the wonderful relationship that she had with her father to motivate her on to bettering her life.
What really touched me the closest about Meg's story about her relationsship with her father was the fact that she missed him so much. To Meg, the only way to bring him closer was to keep him inside of her. And the fact that he was her teacher, coach, friend, spiritual and mental advisor. And that his voice was inside her head, telling her to never give up. Because she knew if she gave up, that she would only loose him more.
Furthermore, she kept hearing his voice in her head, telling her that "he was proud of her." They were the words she would always reach for, and she wasn't about to give them up. Not now. Not ever.
WOW, that was powerful. I say Congrats, KUDOS, and thank you to Meg for sharing her heartfelt story about her relationship with her father.
Meg, I have also lost my father, I find your story very encouraging, and empowering. The simple, yet powerful fact in your ability to bring your father closer, was to keep him inside of you.
The powerful words that you reached for of your fathers voice that rang loud and clear inside your head, of telling you to never give up, and that he was proud of you.
WOW, that is powerful, and to be able to build on that would help you to create endless possibilities.
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