My father, Ricky Lee McBroom, passed away on Wednesday, February 15th following a decade’s long battle with cancer.
He was 66.
Ricky, or as some would call him Broom or Broomster, was a deeply complex person, like we all are. My dad taught me love and joy, but he also taught me pain and fear. The childhood with my father caused me to develop unhealthy coping mechanisms in order to survive, and while they served me at the time, these coping techniques caused anguish in adulthood.
Not until my father’s death could I forgive him.
For the past week, I’ve been allowing myself to be immersed in this intense, overpowering grief that comes like waves in the ocean. Sometimes I really do feel like I’m in the middle of the sea, choking in between the smashing waves, never quite able to fully catch my breath.
Grief is a funny thing, and the grief that’s come to visit after my father’s death is an odd feeling.
The grief from my mother’s death is an old friend, sometimes almost comforting in its presence because the grief from mom’s death is love. Karen (and yes, she would hate that her name is Karen if she were still alive) always made sure her family knew they were loved. And not just the nuclear family…my mom radiated love to each and every brother, sister, niece, nephew, and cousin. When I miss mom and experience grief, I honor the love she put into the world and give her grief a seat at the table.
My brother and I knew mom loved us. We couldn’t tell if our dad did. In death, I now know Rick loved us best he knew how…the best he could with the childhood he experienced. Rick couldn’t give me the father I needed, and I still love the shit out of him.
I understand, dad. I’m sorry it couldn’t happen until you were gone.
Generational trauma is real.
But we can heal. We don’t have to carry our parent’s, and their parent’s, and their parent’s, and their parent’s trauma. We can stop the cycle. It starts with us.
We can be the parents our childhood version needed…and even the parents maybe OUR parents needed as children.
We can tell our kids we love them and cry with them. Emotion isn’t weakness. We can admit to our kids we were wrong and apologize. Being wrong isn’t weakness. We can listen to our kids and try to understand. Being understanding isn’t weakness. We can have patience and enjoy the journey without rushing to the end.
Being mindful isn’t weakness.
Grief is a guest.
Grief is a visitor, and when it knocks on my door, I welcome it in and give it a seat at my table. I’m hospitable, nourishing and taking care of my grief, and when the visit is over, grief leaves.
Grief cannot stay. Grief only visits.
Benjamin Franklin said “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days,” and he’s right. Grief, if allowed to stay, will slowly kill a person.
Grief is a guest; all guests must leave.
Ricky Lee McBroom was a fun loving, intelligent, outgoing risk taker…some might call him a “bad boy,” and I think that’s what drew so many people close to him. You wanted to be in his world of excitement and thrills.
My dad rode motorcycles hard, crashing his first one at the age of 17, and drove cars even harder. Rick taught me to drive, both cars and motorcycles, and while it felt like hell at the time, I’m proud to say I’m a pretty good fucking driver.
Dad listened to his music the same way he rode bikes…to the extreme. My deep love of music came from Rick, and I’ve passed the appreciation down to my oldest son. I couldn’t be prouder.
Does anyone else have a child who counts the Talking Heads as one of their favorite bands?
Learning was my dad’s passion. Ricky never graduated from high school. Instead, he dropped out, taught himself machine engineering, and landed a job that usually takes years of education and experience. Eventually dad mastered CAD/CAM and found a job that required a college degree, yet even without one, he still was hired. Ricky didn’t even apply to the company; instead, Smith & Nephews recruited him relentlessly, even paying for our move from Illinois to Mississippi. Dad was a G, through and through.
Dad was an autodidact. He and I both share an enjoyment of learning for fun…this is how I will continue to honor him. Knowledge and a love for learning.
Ricky was funny. I don’t think I’ve met a funnier person on earth than my father. His ability to crack a joke at the right moment was uncanny, and he knew how to liven the mood if someone might be feeling down. Every time I saw my dad, he had a list of jokes he’d been saving to tell me. And listening to him retell an old story was gold; Ricky was an amazing storyteller. I’ll miss his stories.
My father’s passion for life drew people to him. All of his amazing friends and family have helped get me through this past week and allowed me to share their grief of a man gone too soon. We’ll make sure he lives on through our memories.
He’ll also live on when I look at my son, Colin, or my brother, Robert. They both look like Dad so much. Handsome runs in the McBroom men, y’all.
This strange new grief will visit until it’s ready to leave. Our lives are like seasons, as humans we mirror nature, and this winter of grief is cold and dark. Spring always comes, and after Spring comes Summer…
I will change seasons when I am ready.
I will mourn my father and the loss of a life, too young to die. I will mourn that I was unable to get as close to him as I wished, particularly in his final days. I will mourn his inability to process grief after my mother’s death, leaving me alone in my pain and suffering at the age of 17. I will mourn that my dad and I were never able to have a healthy adult relationship…unable to fully express to each other how and why we hurt. I will mourn I didn’t get to experience my dad with the understanding I have of him now.
I will mourn him until this winter of grief is over, and then I will honor him as an ancestor, watching me from above and guiding me through this thing we call life.
I miss you, dad. Tonight I’m listening to The Pogues and imagining you telling me about the nuances of Spider Stacey’s cymbal playing and the origins to the song Whiskey in the Jar.
I love you, dad. So much more than I could ever tell you. I’m sorry I couldn’t while you were here.
I love you and all of your flaws.