My Dad was John Doe

We got a call from a detective this morning, a detective telling us, well, telling my mom, really, (since its she whose number they had on file and whose number they dialed), that yes, the California Drivers License number that she'd somehow rattled off from memory to them brought up files, brought up records of fingerprints, fingerprints that matched those of a body they had found in a place I don't want to name over three years ago; a body they'd already burned and sent out to sea.

Over three years ago we were still waiting for him to come back. Over three years ago no one had made a report because we thought he'd gone on one of his longer walks and would eventually call and have someone come pick him up-- surely he'd call like he always did. He didn't call, but we still waited. Over three years ago we were still talking like he'd just show up one day, walk into my work to surprise me. "He's probably on his way down here, " my mom would say, hopeful. I had my doubts, but wanted to hope all the same. Even when he was a less deluded man he rarely came to visit us; even when he still had a car and would drive; before he set out on his walks. He was kind of over family. Except when I'd go see him from time to time, just after a holiday so it would seem like I wasn't visiting because of a holiday, yet I'd still bring him a present. One year I even knit him a scarf and cap. When I visited the next year, he was still wearing them, only they'd never been washed and smelled like something you don't want your face next to, but I put my face next to them anyway because they adorned him and him is where I wanted to press my face. He held me close and even though he talked of the world ending in ten years, of how aliens created us, of how he didn't feel safe sharing what he believed with anyone anymore because we were all against him, I knew he loved me and wanted to make things right. He just didn't know how. He could never forgive himself for not being a good enough dad (from a man who never hit us, never hurt us, made us laugh all the time and saw us as people) and no matter how many times he apologized, he'd never let me respond-- he'd just keep on talking so he couldn't receive the atonement. Nothing was more frustrating to me than to hear him wander off at the mouth when all I wanted was for him to really really hear from me, "Dad, I forgive you for not being there all the time. I forgive you and I love you." And then he wandered away.

I didn't know what to do for the longest time. What do you do in a situation like this-- where your father, who has been hospitalized because of a psychotic break, is given meds to stabilize him, is sent home with prescribed drugs, never takes them because he believes he's on a spiritual journey and won't accept that you can be both on a spiritual journey and have a mental illness, starts preparing to 'walk the earth' and then disappears without a trace? How do you search for someone who says he does not want to be found? In the month between his leaving and his death, we were still here waiting. No one made a report because we were convinced (in denial?) that he would come back. Finally, a missing persons report was filed. But it was too late. He was already John Doe. Only we didn't know it. We didn't know it until today.

I have been in a state of delayed grief for over three years. Most of these years I assumed my dad was dead. It's easier to assume than to know. It's easier to go on living just thinking your favorite dad is in Never Never Land and that maybe one day you'll see him again in Heaven, without ever really having to deal with the reality of his death. Sort of like the Rapture, but not.

My dad was Fred Babb. He played air saxophone at the dinner table in Cambria's nicest restaurant. He made Easter baskets out of chocolate and shredded wheat emulating rabbit turds. He made everyone who walked through our family door take the Myers-Briggs personality test because he was fascinated by the hearts and minds of people. He made the best Tuna Runners in the world and painted a fake fireplace for us for Christmas just so we could pretend we were warm in our one-bedroom shack. He always told me I had a beautiful neck and wanted me to keep my hair short just so I could show it off. We would sit together, mute 90210 and make up the dialogue until we laughed so hard we peed. He was an amazing artist whose one desire was to use his art to validate people in their true selves-- to free people from the man-made traditions that bound them. He lived to speak truth and to love others despite his struggles with depression, grief, loneliness and eventual spiral into schizophrenia.

I am angry about the way my dad died. I am angry I couldn't save him from his pain. I am angry that my kids will never know him, that he'll never walk me down the aisle (though he probably would've done interpretive dance down the aisle, but anyway...), that I'll never get to share my joys and woes with him.

For a while I will probably continue to look hard at scraggly, homeless men, searching behind all the grime and overgrown hair for my beloved father's face. I will continue to pray for them, for their families who are out there waiting, wondering. I will continue to see the nameless, faceless Jane and John Does out there as mothers, fathers, brothers, uncles, sisters and ask God to not let them go on unnamed, to not let them go unfound.