[Blog/Commentary] [USA] I Am Your Daughter: Making Peace Before Pop Dies

[Stephanie Stevens]

Bilerico, USA


I Am Your Daughter: Making Peace Before Pop Dies

Filed By Guest Blogger | May 19, 2013 12:30 PM


Editors' Note: Guest blogger Pam Daniels is a writer, activist, and a
member of Garden State Equality's Board of Directors. She has 26 years
of experience in broadcast news and media.

--

The digital display on my dashboard reads "7:41 PM, 67 degrees" as I
leave the on-ramp and join the southbound traffic on the Garden State
Parkway. I had planned on attending a PFLAG meeting in Toms River
tonight but that will have to wait.

A dear friend of mine who is an airline pilot is a PFLAG volunteer.
This group does awesome work to bridge the gap between parents and
their LGBT kids. I wonder how many LGBT people of my generation would
be alive today if PFLAG existed when we were kids.

I break free of a semi-hypnotic trance; I could, but won't drive the
remaining 8 to 10 miles with my eyes closed, to the hospital intensive
care unit where my 85 year old father lay close to death. Glancing up
at the horizon above the highway as dusk drifts into darkness, the
bottom of a large cloud formation glows yellowish gold from a setting
sun directly above my destination. I'm not nervous. I'm at peace with
myself.

This inner peace was unknown to me until these past four years after I
had finally come out as a transgender lesbian woman. My father was
certainly not at peace, forget comfortable, with my true nature as his
eldest daughter; I was outed to him and my mother without my
permission by a younger sibling who, in doing so, perpetrated a
despicable, pernicious violation of my rights.

As expected during two or three phone conversations I had with dad
after I was outed, he used all the bogus religious arguments in his
arsenal to try to make me feel guilty, perverse and disgusting, but I
was prepared for this by then. I knew better; I finally knew that his
and all bigotry against LGBT people stems from ignorance.

So, now I'm driving to a hospital so my father can meet me, the real
me, Pamela, in person, before he dies. We have two hours together,
from 8 to 10 PM, to discuss the last 58 years of our shared time.

Driving Down Memory Lane

Snapshots appear and short video clips play in my mind as I relive
moments with my dad from 40 to 50 years ago, like breaking in my first
pair of hockey skates on the frozen lake in my North Jersey hometown
as dad tries to show me how to turn and skate backward. Dad never
played hockey but loved the sport even though he's an expert figure
skater. Like everything in my life, I learned to skate very quickly,
almost too easily; I still take this capability for granted.

I slow to drive through an EZ Pass toll lane and a related vision
consumes me. Hockey... Dad and a ten year old me at the old Madison
Square Garden in New York City circa 1965... The New York Rangers
against the Chicago Black Hawks... Our seats were on either side of a
huge vertical support beam that we had to crane our necks around to
see the ice or each other. The game went into several overtimes and
dad brought me home very, very late on a school night. Mom was pissed.
It's so laughable now but was very serious back then.

Fast forward to high school and my hockey games. Dad drove me to
school at 4 AM and took the bus with the team to a game in Haverstraw,
New York - the first time he saw me play competitive hockey. Our team
never lost, in fact we utterly dominated high school hockey for
decades. Dad's proud to this day; so am I.

The sign ahead closes in and warns me to exit the highway in a
half-mile but the next moment with dad is cued up in my mind's eye. It
was five or six degrees above zero and snowing lightly as I cut the
ends off fresh string beans by a roaring campfire that I'd started
with flint and steel. I was making dinner for our scout patrol so I
could pass my cooking merit badge. The menu was hamburger meat in a
frying pan, boiled string beans and biscuits baked in a Dutch oven. I
was hungry, so were all the boys in my platoon, who huddled close to
the flames. I cooked the dinner and we all ate as dad and my
scoutmaster dropped by sipping cups of hot coffee made on their
propane stove inside their heated camper. I got my cooking merit badge
and years later earned the rank of Eagle Scout.

I exit the Garden State Parkway with just one more mile to go before I
reach dad's hospital when a newspaper article about Christine
Jorgenson, the world's first transsexual woman, I read in October of
1969 flashes in my head. I knew I was really a girl when I was five or
six years old but this newspaper story informed me at14 that it's
possible to have an operation and actually live my life as a female. I
hold this dream close to my heart - even now as I walk from the
parking garage toward the hospital main entrance. I am beaming with
joy and elation. I am very close now to knowing the exact date of my
surgery.

A Woman to See You

I poke my head past the open sliding glass door into my dad's room to
interrupt the night nurse who looks over the color flat screen
readings above dad's head that itemize his very weakened status.
"Hello," I whisper at this health care professional and he turns
toward me immediately with a smile. After instructing me to don a
sterile gown and gloves, the nurse introduces himself as Mike - and
instantly brings a smile to my face since that used to be my name.

Dad's eye's blink open when Mike announces, "There's a woman here to
see you, Sir!"

Mike smiles at me and he walks out of the room while I drag a
visitor's chair up close to my father's bedside. I sit down and begin
to gently stroke Dad's forehead with my gloved left hand. He makes
direct eye contact with me and I'm relieved as I observe him looking
over my made up face because I can sense he's mentally alert.

I know I now look a lot like my mother did when she was 40 or 50 years
younger and I don't think Dad's ever seen a photo of me as a woman.
I'm pretty sure this is the first time he's seeing at me as a woman.

I lean over him, softly kiss his forehead, just as I had always done
over the past six or seven years that he'd been in the nursing home,
before I whisper in his ear. "Dad, I used to be Mike, you and mom
named me Michael, but you know now that I'm a woman and I changed my
name to Pamela, remember?"

I lean back so he can see my face up close but I keep stroking his
forehead and scalp softly. I know my dad; I know his subtle
expressions as his left eyebrow rises ever so slightly. He's
connecting the dots.

I lean into his left ear again and repeat, "Dad, we talked about this
last year. You and mom named me Mike but I gave myself the name
Pamela. Blink once for yes if you remember, blink twice for no if you
don't remember."

As I lean back less than a foot from his face, my lips purse and form
a closed mouth smile. Dad begins to smile and blinks once; my heart
warms, but I need to confirm his lucidity. I lean into his ear and
whisper, "I love you Pop!" then quickly move back to clearly read his
lips say, "Love you" through his soft, infirmed smile.

Remembering Love

Selfishly, I want to relive my cherished moments from the past with my
Dad so I just begin spewing my memories to him - like how he
painstakingly built a Hi Fidelity audio entertainment system for our
home with an amplifier, FM radio tuner, reel to reel playback/record
tape deck, and, most importantly, an extremely sensitive turntable for
playing records. I tell dad that I remember being with him as he used
his table saw in our basement to design and built the cabinets that
held all this equipment - including the speaker cabinets that filled
our living room with extraordinary "Hi Fi" sound.

Dad loves pipe organ music and drums. He had awesome recordings of
Stan Kenton, Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich on drums and I could hear with
crystal clarity everything those percussionists played. Mom had her
records too. She loved Beethoven, Brahms, Tchaikovsky and many other
classical composers. Mom especially loved "Revel's Bolero."

I remind dad that I scavenged parts from old TV's and radios left by
our neighbors for garbage and built an AM radio from all the parts and
tubes I collected to win first prize in the school science fair. Dad
taught me technical accuracy and acumen; mom taught me music
appreciation.

As I describe these things to dad his smile glows and his eyes well
very slightly with tears - as do mine. I warm to a feeling I'd always
had - the feeling that I am in-between mom and dad, a complicated
combination of them both but more than just a sum of the two of them.

Fun and funny memories keep queuing up in my head, so I keep telling
dad these stories one after another.

Dad loves fireworks; he loved making his own from scratch - to the
point of mixing his own gunpowder. I remind my father how he would
make these weird cone shaped firecrackers and light them under coffee
cans in our backyard. Occasionally the can would shoot up in the air
several feet but mostly the loud explosion would send shrapnel flying
in all directions - which inevitably resulted in a severe
remonstration from my mother.

He loves electronics and bought several "Citizen's Band" radios in the
early 60's. Our basement served as his design laboratory. Dad found
the long telescoping steel antennas on CB walkie talkies annoying so
he designed and built much shorter tuned coil antennas that clipped
onto the original antennas. Four years later Motorola patented the
same design, which became widely known as "rubber duck" antennas. The
design was a basic patent, just like the light bulb and phonograph,
but dad couldn't afford a patent attorney to represent him in
Washington DC.

The Dark Side of the Moon

In 1970 dad bought a Winnebago motor home. In 1972 when I was 17 we
took a family trip from New Jersey down to Florida. Dad let me drive
the rig. I was shitting bricks; he kept asking me if I was okay. I was
driving! I wasn't giving up the wheel for anything and Dad knew it. He
grins from ear to ear in his bed as I retell this story for us both.

That Winnebago Motor Home had a kick ass AM/FM stereo cassette system
in it. Dad didn't like most of my music back then - Led Zeppelin,
Hendrix, The Who, Pink Floyd. Ah, Pink Floyd! I start to retell dad
about "Dark Side of the Moon."

I taught myself to play guitar at eleven. Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of
the Moon" album came out in '73 when I was 18 and like I always did, I
learned to play along with my favorite artists. I was figuring out the
first three tracks from the album on my electric guitar in our
finished basement when Dad came down the stairs and listened in. I ask
him if he remembers this; I tell him I remember like it was yesterday.
Dad lifts his head slightly from his hospital bed pillow, still
smiling, and nods yes.

Dad and I finished off our basement; it had a bar and an awesome
stereo system. I kept my guitar and amp down there until I left for
college in the fall of '73. After a period of listening to me play
along with Pink Floyd, Dad asked me if I would make a cassette copy of
the album for him and I did. He grins from ear to ear and nods his
head as I remind him how he would sit out in the motor home and play
the tape I made for him - cranking it up loud and listening. Unlike
many rock albums back then, the lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of
the Moon" were clearly audible. I know dad liked the lyrics just as
much as he liked the guitar.

I remind him that I interviewed Pink Floyd guitarist, vocalist and
songwriter David Gilmore for my college radio station in '76. He beams
and remembers that I brought home a tape of that interview from
college. I lean over him to kiss his forehead as I recall the very
apropos lyrics to Pink Floyd's "Breathe," "Time" and "Breathe Reprise"
from that Dark Side of the Moon album and I feel myself holding back
tears.

Dad is mouthing something so I lean in close and put my left ear right
up to his mouth. He has no voice at all; he can barely attempt a
whisper but he can control his lips and tongue. I hear "7" and what
sounds like "E." He inhales as much air as he can and tries to repeat
two or three more times. I think he's saying "'74" so I ask "1974?"
Dad smiles bigger, nods and mouths yes. Dad is off by a year but I say
to him, "Yeah, you and mom drove me to college in the motor home,
moved me to Northeastern University in Boston, remember?" Dad mouths
and nods yes again.

I Am Your Daughter

I bring dad back to present day, this moment in time. "Pop, I'm very
happy now, I'm finally living as myself - my true nature - a woman. I
told you last year that I'm an activist and writer and that I also go
to Washington to lobby for full equality. I'm very happy now."

Only I call my father "Pop" as a term of endearment. Dad begins
mouthing something and I can't read his lips so I pull my hair back
and put my left ear barely an inch away from his lips. He wants to
tell me something and I must know what it is.

Pop can barely push air out of his mouth; his vocal cords are totally
dysfunctional, but, his tongue and lips still form syllables one at a
time. I worry that this might be to stressful for him but I know when
he's determined. After three or four minutes I think I hear him say,
"I like" so I lift my head back so he can see my lips and hear my
voice and ask, "Did you say 'I like'?"

Pop shakes his head yes so I quickly put my left ear back down by his
mouth. The next word would take nearly ten minutes for me to
understand. I check my watch and the wall clock; both read 9:48 and I
am scared that I might not be able to understand him. I think I hear
Pop saying "Your" so again I lift my face about a foot above his eyes
and ask, "Did you say 'your'?"

Pop shakes his head yes so I ask him, "You said 'I like your'. Is that
correct?" Pop's smiles and nods yes so I put my left ear directly over
his lips again and listen carefully. Fortunately the syllables that
follow involve his lips and tongue. Pop repeats what seems like four
additional syllables again and again.

Finally I've got it, every fiber of my being is beaming love and
positive energy as I ask Pop, "Did you say, 'name Pamela'?" Pop's
smiles big and nods yes.

I ask, "Are you saying 'I like your name Pamela'?" Pop keeps nodding
and mouths "Yes!"

Our Final Moments

I check my watch and the clock on the wall to my right opposite the
foot of Pop's bed; it's 9:57. A hospital wide announcement is
broadcast through the ceiling speakers that visiting hours are over.
Tears of joy and sadness stream down my cheeks; Pop is smiling - but
tearfully. We both know that we've experienced our final moments
together in this lifetime.

I kiss his chapped, dry, cracked lips and cradle the back of his neck
in both of my hands; my tears drip on his face but he's still smiling.
I know Pop is giving me his last gift - his love and support even
though it's difficult for him to understand why I'm really a woman
even though I was born genetically male. The bottom line with Pop is
that no matter if I'm his son or daughter, he loves me and wants me to
be happy and I've always known this.

Over the past two years I've told him during phone conversations about
the horrible depression I lived through from being forced to live as
and act male. I feel during these final poignant moments together that
Pop felt some of my mother's nature in me. Mom and I had many
discussions about love, compassion and most importantly, empathy,
decades ago. Mom has Alzheimer's now so all discussions between us
have passed.

I attempt nonchalance with a warm but nervous smile as I stand up from
Pop's bedside and declare, "Visiting hours are over Pop, they're
kicking us out."

Dad mouths "Love you" so I lean down and kiss him once more but now
I'm bawling uncontrollably. I turn away from Pop, walk to the foot of
his bed, and we lock eyes one more time. I mouth, "I love you," and
blow him a kiss. Pop mouths, "Love you" and purses his weak lips in a
kiss then he turns his head to his right on his pillow and stares away
from me.

I turn away from him, walk out of his room and down the hallway,
removing the sterile gown and gloves along the way.


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