My father died suddenly on Nov. 9, 1966 when I was fifteen years old. He had a stroke, went to the ICU and died two days later.

When I think about this awful/pivotal time, I have a vast array of angry and sad feelings.
How institutions failed my family:

The hospital would not allow my sister and I to visit my father while he was in the Intensive Care Unit. They wouldn’t let my mother see him either-she had to sneak into his room. He died without any of us having the chance to say goodbye. This was straight out traumatizing. Having no visual picture of my dad dying made it very difficult to believe that he was really dead. The lack of visual memory made it impossible to grieve. I didn’t really cry about his death until I was in my 40’s. I still feel like I am playing catch up now. I feel that the dreamlike/nightmare/shock state engulfed me for much of my life. I was stuck and numb. I felt very alone and did not believe anyone could really understand what I was going through.

The funeral industry itself contributed to my traumatization. The grave diggers were excavating the hole for my dad’s casket while the funeral was taking place. Disrespect and disregard with the dirt thrown on my dad’s grave. I also noticed the large headstones reserved for the wealthy a stone’s throw away from the tiny headstones where we were standing.

The rabbi at my dad’s funeral was most concerned about my father not having a Jewish name. Matter of fact, the rabbi that none of us knew stated, “Although Joseph Livingstone didn’t have a Jewish name, I understand that he was a good man.” How could anyone make their lips move to say these words? Even though our family was not active in the temple, it would have been nice if some congregation member would have reached out to us, but this never happened.

My high school teachers told me how sorry they were. Some of the teachers gave me a break and others flat out failed me without asking why I was having such a difficult time. I skipped more days than I attended. I felt like I was a freak and was labeled a disabled boy because my father died. No one really tried to help me; they just told me how terrible I was doing and that I would never go to college because I had low standardized test scores.

People would say, “Call me if there is anything I can do”. I never called them because I didn’t know what they could do. I knew they couldn’t bring my father back to life.

My father died while I was in the middle of adolescence. We were not getting along at the time to put it mildly. There was an incident where he started to hit me, but I hit him in the stomach instead. He doubled over, walked away and never spoke to me again. I had no one to talk to about this and I now understand that these other experiences caused me to not trust anyone. I felt so guilty and for years I secretly blamed myself for my dad’s death. I kept all those feeling bottled up.

I remember the summer before he died; he and I were driving on the New Jersey Turnpike and he was swerving into the other lane. Cars were honking, but he seemed oblivious while Reach Out by the Four Tops was on the radio. I never said anything at the time. I didn’t have words for it. I couldn’t take in any information that my dad had something seriously wrong with him.

I’d see him at home all disheveled and hair uncombed. He would be at the kitchen table holding his head in his hands. He was in pain, but we never talked about it.

One day he put bleach in the dark clothes wash and my black pants has places that were bleached out. He immediately painted those spots with black paint. This was another moment where I knew something was wrong but didn’t have words for it and most of all didn’t want to believe my dads health was crashing down. I had all the denial a fifteen-year-old could muster.

His factory job also failed us. My dad came home early from work one day after our summer vacation. He said that he “forgot” to tell his boss he was going on vacation, so they fired him. Why couldn’t they have shown some compassion and understanding? Why didn’t they help him get a medical evaluation?
Why was no person or institution there for him while he was slowly dying? Why was no person or institution there for the rest of my family after he died? No wonder I was so messed up, confused, and without any confidence what so ever.

I’m sure I pushed people away who tried to help me, but they needed to keep trying to reach me, but they didn’t.

His own physician was worse than useless. Apparently, he knew my dad was experiencing a series of small strokes, but he told my mother there was nothing he could do.
As I write, I am angry as hell! How could the entire American society be so indifferent to my dad and our family?

I have come to realize that these experiences have led me to do the opposite of what was done to me. I believe in the Jewish ideal, that we are here to heal the world. I do my best to be present and helpful to my friends and psychotherapy clients. I get triggered when they share stories of being harmed by institutional indifference, greed or incompetence. I want to stand up for them and teach others to assert themselves.

What I did about the failure of American institutions:

I have been active in trying to change destructive institutional policies through demonstrations and other means of protest.

Perhaps what helped me the most was meeting my wife to be Gail Meadows in 1969. She and her mother taught me what it meant to be loved unconditionally. This helped me to learn to love myself unconditionally (still working on this, perhaps this is a lifelong endeavor).

I discovered Sandtray Therapy which provided a pathway to grieve my dad’s death and understand how traumas affect us. It also provides a means to heal from trauma.

I have been running for about forty years and my five mile, five days a week runs help me deal with anxiety, depression and confusion.

Listening to Soul Music and Rock and Roll is healing, soothing, life affirming and joyful.

I have been a psychotherapist for over thirty years. I work with children, teenagers and adults. My experiences have been a gift. They have led me to hone my skills in working with others who experience trauma and loss. My empathy comes from being neglected, not having a voice, being shut down and learning to heal. I know it is not an easy path, but I love helping others move forward in their journeys.

Love is the answer.

I’d love for you to post your comments here or https://www.facebook.com/HealingEmotionalPain/ Thanks!