Things I Learned From My Father’s Diary 31 Years After His Death

Dive or Lead? Curses Foiled Again! These are entries in my father’s diary in 1992, the year he died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. This doesn’t sound like the beginning of a thank you letter but trust me it is.

Every year my father received a small diary from a pharmaceutical company. He wrote in it every day 1968 to 1992. The diary was 8x5 and had about two and a half inches for each day. Each day he recorded the weather in the top right corner. There was always some note that included either a temperature or comments such as cloudy, snowy, humid, full moon, full tide, amazing moonrise, or spectacular sunset. The top left corner always noted the initials of the physician in the practice on call that day. The notes of the day varied in level of detail. Some days he indicated his surgical cases by patient name and procedure, while others simply say “dump run.” At the bottom he indicated how he spent the evening and with whom. One-night notes “steak cookout with M.E./Des/McC/Berry/Nelson — excellent party, beautiful moonrise with HI tide” Another night says ”5- Ofc, mtg, 9:25 -reports/ late lean cuisine” Yet another says “ 7:15 — light dinner with LRC/Maddie/MJC; 8:30 jacuzzi 9:30 discuss colleges with MJC” — I’m MJC. I’ve found it a great source of happiness to open any year to today’s date to see what our family did that day. It makes me feel connected to him all these years later. It’s a written version of a little movie from tiny moments of my life. On April 12th, 1984, our family of four went to the Barnside restaurant for a dinner that cost $35 dollars. On January 7th, 1984, my parents gave me a surprise 16th birthday party that he thought was “SUPERB!!” (written in all caps), and apparently paid my friend’s band the Squids $125 for the evening.

The times he was on vacation were the most detailed entries, including towns, restaurants, names of people… For example, on a sailing trip in 1976 … 8/12/76 — “Maine/ Sunny/Beautiful Block Harbor — early departure, motor thru — brk under way, seals abound, water slack, Jerico Bay, sail to casco passage, Black Island; lunch/swimming on shore, boats drag anchor then secured, sail past bass hbr and overbar, NE harbor. Rafted on mooring, cocktails, clean up at facilities, town for ice cream, Flick’s Rest for clams- best and only rest open” 8/13/76 “NE Hbr, brk w/ Clifford kids, Carole and Kids go to town, Sail out and up Somes Sound Abel’s lobster pound, Motor and Sail — SW Hbr, weather deteriorates, head to Babs hbr, aground in bass hbr and saved other boats, arrive and raft, LOBSTER ORGY”. Yes — he seriously wrote LOBSTER ORGY! Those two BIG WORDS WRITTEN IN CAPITAL LETTER say it all!

I’ve had these diaries for thirty years. While I’m sure I read them sometime after my father died, I honestly don’t recall anything. This year I am the same age my father was when he died. This past spring, I opened 1992 and started reading it again. The first mention of Dday is May 9th, 1992. On May 25th he wrote “gun vs overdose?””. On June 17th he wrote “dive or lead?” We had a pool, lived on the ocean, and apparently owned a rifle and a shotgun. On June 30th he wrote “lead vs dive” and later crossed it out and added “Curses foiled again”. Those three words took my breath away and then made me laugh out loud. See back in the 70s my uncle Wally told this joke with a napkin. The napkin was used as a bow tie, a hair bow and a mustache. It went:

Napkin as mustache and deep mean voice “I’ve come to get the rent.”

Napkin as hair bow and sweet girl voice “I can’t pay the rent.”

Napkin as mustache “You must pay the rent.”

Napkin as hair bow “I can’t pay the rent.”

Napkin as bow tie and strong male voice “I’ll pay the rent”

Napkin as hair bow “My hero”

Napkin as mustache “Curses, foiled again”

I know exactly what my father meant with that diary entry. Someone had foiled his plan to end his life that day. Even in his darkest despair he wrote “curses foiled again.” If I read that entry thirty years ago, which I may have, I did not laugh out loud. On June 28th he wrote “last weekend” On September 27th he wrote “Dday, pool closed today, dive eliminated.” On September 23 he wrote “opportunity missed.” On October 2nd he wrote “shoot at BF- Fri, Sat, or Sun?” On October 13th he wrote “must day!” And in his final diary entry on October 15th the wrote “DDay 44/BF” BF stands for Bay Farm which is what we called our house as it was originally the site of an old farm on Kingston Bay. You can deduce what 44 means. Turns out he didn’t use a a 44 though. I didn’t even know that until recently. I don’t know what went through his mind Oct 16–18, but what I do know is that were 41 entries in 1992 that indicated his desire to end his life. There are at least 41 times over 161 days where he wanted to end his life so much that he wrote it in his diary but didn’t do it for some reason.

We rarely if ever hear the voice of people who end their own lives. We desperately want to know why. We want to understand why. This diary allowed me to make peace with what my father viewed in his limited agency as the only choice available to him. His depression so limited his ability to see beyond himself. His very real despair eliminated the possibility of improvement and yet the profound love he still had for and felt from “his three girls” allowed him to stay with us 161 more days. 161 more days of pure hell and despair. I now see and read his words at the age of fifty-five and with thirty-one more years of life experiences. I see and read these words so differently. While I hope I never truly understand the depth of his despair, I have so much compassion for him and so much gratitude for those extra 161 days. I have even more gratitude for the gift of these diaries that will continue to allow me to look back at snap shots of my life with my Dad and my family. The great days, the horrible days, and the lean cuisine days.

At the time of his death my mother, sister and I found notes he had written to each of us. His note to me said “You just can’t know the depth of my despair. I have become a total failure with my depression and my loss of ability to work as a doctor and surgeon. Please forgive me and remember the good times. I know this will cause hurt for a great while, but I can find no peace. Remember I love you”

At twenty-four that note did not ease my grief. It did not provide comfort or answers. These diaries do all that and so much more. I can look at them and see him standing behind our bar writing in the diary with a glass of scotch, a tub of port wine cheese in a plastic tub and a box of wheat thins. I never knew what he was writing but now I do, and I am eternally grateful for every entry.

Thanks Dad. Remember I love you!