I see dead people

How a visit to a medium helped me see another side of my late dad

I started a podcast on the many sides of motherhood. In episode 5 we talk about intergenerational trauma, how our immigrant parents raised us, and how we remember our childhoods. Listen here.

Memory is a weird thing. If you ask me about my childhood, many memories point back to the blue carpet in the 2-story track home I grew up in.

I remember walking down the hallway upstairs toward the bathroom, feeling the sponginess of the blue rug on my toes. To the left, a wood stair railing with black grooves and, to the right, three bedrooms. Each of those bedroom doors were a blank slate with a centerpiece: a hole about a foot from the ground. My dad kicked them in at some point in his rage.

I remember placing my face on the blueness, springy but scratchy. I lay flat on my stomach in my bedroom, staring up at the matching blue metal blinds, listening to my parents fighting for hours downstairs.

I remember sitting on this carpet with my sister, coloring pages together, a rare moment of unity at this age; she was 15, I was 7. Dad was yelling at our oldest sister on the night of her graduation. We huddled together wondering why this day, which was supposed to be joyful, went so sideways.

Over the last year, I’ve been slowly writing a book about my relationship with my dad, who died in 2008 of lung cancer. After sharing a few chapters for feedback in a memoir writing class, my classmates reminded me to also think of the good memories. While it was an obvious part of this book-writing process, I met it with resistance. For a long time, it was difficult to uncover moments of joy.

Then my friend invited me to go with her to see a medium¹, someone who can connect to people who have died. This was my first experience with anything like this. Going in, I wondered if dad would make an appearance but I shut the idea down. No way dad would appear because he’d think this is all baloney. Heck, I was also dubious but came along for the ride because I was curious.

Whether or not we want to believe he really came into this room — by way of this woman with pretty brown hair, sweet eyes and a soft voice — is not the point. Here in this room was where something unlocked my memory bank.

I visualized my dad, sitting at a back corner of the room, skeptical as hell. He was probably scratching the back of his head vigorously, as he always did, when he was pissed. Was it his ghost? Or was it me being duped? Either way, the medium said a few things on behalf of my “dad,” and I’ll let you in on one tidbit.

He wanted to remind me he was goofy and funny.

What? Who, dad?! I was taken aback. Maybe she was talking to someone else. Maybe this is where I poked a hole in her magic and she was just making it all up.

After dad died, I became an angry person toward myself, toward my husband, and then to my kids. I’ve been doing the work to heal for years with different therapies, journaling, meditation, yoga and many talks with my sisters.

A few days after seeing the medium, little memories were coming up, like a slow leak, but they started to become more vivid than when I began to write down the first chapters.

I remember dad driving me and my sisters on an alternate route home and asking him where we were. He’d smile, wink to my sisters in the rear view mirror and say, “uh oh, we’re lost” followed by everyone in the car telling me we’d likely need to find a new house and a new mom. Funny or mean? Either way, it was good fuel for my family to tease the little one in her vulnerability.

I remember dad pranking us on our Christmas presents by wrapping giant boxes inside boxes, inside more boxes to reveal a tiny box filled with what we really wanted — cash.

I remember feeling frustrated when we washed our cars on the weekends. Being the shortest, I had to clean the rims and I asked why I need to do it if it’s going to get dirty anyway. His response was “Why do you wash your underwear? It is going to get dirty anyway.” Touché, dad.

I remember when I was a teenager, also my most difficult years with my dad, he surprised us by saying “that’s what she said” when we least expected it. What a moment, realizing dad was in on the joke the entire time.

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Writing about painful memories is difficult. Writing about the joyful ones between them is harder.

It’s like foraging for berries. You can walk through a forest and only notice thorny bushes and vines. In the process, it’s likely you’ll get poked with a few spikes, collect cuts and scrapes along the way but, with care and focus, you end up with a basket of sweet fruit and the scavenge was worth it.

Nearly everyone has a complex relationship with a parent. Now that I’m a mom, it’s hard knowing my kids will grow up and naturally remember some of the bad under my wings — it’s inevitable for all of us parents. I used to beat myself up in each low moment of mothering. As I’ve made it an effort to work on seeing a more full picture of my childhood experiences with my dad, I hope my kids will grow up and choose to walk through the forest and forage, too.

1. Kelly Fisher is located in San Diego and I completely believe in her work. My podcast co-host, another friend and I went and saw her earlier this year. If you’re interested in seeing her, all I have to say is go with an open heart and mind. She is warm and approachable.