Today was the memorial held for my father. We approached the event as a celebration of life. A party that he would have wanted on his birthday (9/16). Until this point, I was still imagining my dad alive and at home, even though my logical brain knew otherwise. It was easier to imagine that things did not happen the way they did. Attached below is the tribute that I wrote for him. It was cathartic for me and a major milestone in my journey to acceptance. In the tribute I talk about my anxiety and depression. I was nervous to share these deep feelings with the audience of 150+ people, but was encouraged by my mom to go through with it. She acknowledged that many other people are going through their own grief and a good step towards a more open environment is to talk about the hard emotions. Thank you all for coming and even more for your support this past year. I hope you all take time to enjoy a Miller Lite in my fathers, Tommy Duner’s, honor. You all know how much my dad loved his birthday and I am sure he would be smiling to know that we were all getting slightly tipsy for his birthday. If he was here right now we would be at the San Diego Boat Races shooting the shit and drinking a beer. As I start this speech I hear my dad’s voice in my head saying speak slower, speak clearer and speak louder, just as he would tell me every time I practiced for a presentation. I will follow his instructions but fair warning, I have yet to finish this without crying.
Many of you would tell me I got my looks and my brains from my mom. I always wondered as a kid what I got from my dad? I didn’t realize till I was much older that I am my fathers daughter. Our relationship started off slow. He was there for me, we would watch movies like Star Wars together when my mom worked one Saturday a month. We watched twilight zone marathons every year. I know what made him cry and what made him happy, what movies he adored and what he loved to listen to. After my parent got a divorce I started hanging with my father a lot and actually talking deeper than we ever had. I was older, wiser, and more attuned with my own personality. He surprised me. He supported me. He let me talk (and you all know how much I love to talk). He remained interested in my work no matter what it was I was dedicated to, journalism, writing, science, even hospitality. He was there for it all. My dad knew me deeper than most people without even trying, since we are pretty much the same person, we have the same thought process. I am like my father in many ways, we are both cold all the time, we love trisuits and chocolate covered almonds, we are simple plain eaters; even deeper we are both smarter than we appear, fiercely loyal, care deeply about those close to us and it takes a whole lot for us to give up on people. From a young age, he taught me and had me memorize the important facts in life, such as the names of the men that defined multiple generations John Paul George and Ringo, that baba oriely is the real name of the song, that space IS the final frontier, that 5 to the 5 means 10 minutes, that the truth is out there and that mom is always right and we should never question her. He taught me the art of “just being”, sitting comfortable and enjoying the moment. I know a lot of random facts about my dad, his favorite animated movie was Anastasia, his favorite hero was Aquaman, he loved conspiracies. When I asked him what he was like in high school he said the closest likeness was Jeff Spicoli, the surfer dude, from Fast Times at Ridgemont High and I am sure those of you who knew him at that time could confirm this. I miss him so much. I wish he could tell me what he wanted for my life and what he thought I was destined for. He was taken away from me just as our relationship was forming and blossoming. Whether a joke or not, I was quite young when I first learned that my dad didn’t think he would live past the age of 45 or so. Every year that he lived was another year he beat his own odds. I truly believed that my dad would live forever. I knew he had his bad habits but he appeared healthy, would rarely get sick, and always healed quickly. When he was diagnosed with lung cancer all I had was the knowledge that he was strong and I had already lived through the cancer diagnosis of my mom which she beat with grace. I believed that it would be easy for him too. It may have been naive, but he is my dad, there were so many more things I wanted to say to him and more events for him to be with me through. Even when he was in hospice I believed that he would make a come back, like he always did. I couldn’t understand why everyone was visiting with such sadness and dread. He is Tommy Duner and he always bounces back. Even when it was his last breath I couldn’t believe it. When he passed, I was just about to accept that he had retired, that his shop had closed, and that I would never get to go to that space that I grew up in. I am still over coming denial, there are many moment in the day I think of calling him to discover that I can’t. I am still angry. I still bargain with whatever higher power is out there to have my father back. I am still depressed and I don’t know when acceptance will come. I should have asked more questions when he was with me. I am glad to have gotten the time that I had with him but it wasn’t enough. Most importantly he knew I loved him. When I was young I always felt like a princess sitting in the buggy next to my father at Glamis. My father, Tommy Duner, was king of the sand dunes and lead in countless rides. I am my fathers daughter, I have sand in my veins just as he did and he will always be a part of me. Our happy place is in front of a crackling fire with the endless open sky and stars above us and friends all around. My first memory of my father was in me lying a flower field in Michigan. If there is an after life I hope to awake in that same field, surrounded by those beautiful yellow flowers, and hear his voice say “come along Dorothy”. Thank you.
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Madison Arza KennedyThis blog is to document my journey through my PhD while dealing with the early loss of my father Tom Kennedy. Archives
March 2020
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