This article was first published in 2005 on the now defunct health & science Web site, “Red Flags Daily” which I was publishing at the time. (Red Flags was founded by my late-husband, Nicholas Regush.) This (2-part) very personal story received such glowing attention at the time, that I asked Bea if I could republish it here on “Songs And Ideas For Your Well Being.”
This is Part Two. Part One is here.
FEAR RULED
Fear ruled my father’s life. I only learned of the vise-like grip it had on him when I was appointed to put his affairs in order. Dad made photocopies of everything — from his bank statements to the letters he wrote, which almost always started with the words, “Be careful no one sees you read this.”
After my father left us, he moved frenetically from town to town, changing jobs and addresses in his attempt to escape the clutches of the mysterious “they” who were after him. He was seeking always to find a place of safety, somewhere he could live in peace, somewhere “they” could not find him.
In 1979, he thought he had found it. Somehow, my father had put together enough money to buy one full acre of land just off of the highway between two small towns. There, he built a house, doing most of the work himself. Dad had been a draftsman years ago. It was the first job that “they” had forced him to leave, but he had been quite good at it.
Had his perceived enemies been of flesh and blood, his small fortress would have protected him. He erected a fence between the trees, making it invisible from the highway, and dug the driveway onto his property at a sharp angle away from the flow of traffic. His place was so well camouflaged that I drove by it four times before I found it.
Once past the forest and into the clearing, I found his cars. Eight of them — all bought second-hand and driven for a while, then put up on blocks and kept as proof that “they” had tried to kill him. For every vehicle, I found a carefully photocopied registered letter to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and the Sûreté du Québec claiming that “they” had done something to the cars in an attempt to cause a fatal accident. In each, Dad requested that someone be sent to examine the evidence. His letters were never answered.
Dotting his large piece of land were what appeared to be small, well-built doghouses, each nicely distanced from the other — each solidly built, with good quality shingles on their small roofs. They had raised curiosity among the few visitors he allowed in because Dad never had a dog. I learned through the notes he frequently wrote to himself, however, that these were for the animals he believed he had forced out of their natural habitat when he had cleared the land.
Most people would have built their house in the clearing. Dad built his amid a grove of wild lilac trees, around which he had planted cedars, ensuring excellent camouflage. The once-lovely front porch had one door, three locks, but no actual access to the house. The only way in was through an old, ramshackle porch on the far side.
He had obviously used all of his abilities to try and create a safe hideaway for himself. Unfortunately, his unseen enemy was far more insidious than any human could ever be. It lived within him. And the more energy he expended finding ways to defend himself, the stronger it grew.
HAUNTING VOICES
Searching through the timeline created by his personal notes and letters, I discovered that after living there for about four years, his illness took a malevolent twist. He began to hear voices — horrible, scolding voices that threatened him and screamed at him while he was trying to sleep. They seemed to come from two warring camps in his mind. One knew every supposed sin he had ever committed; the other wanted to hurt him because of his attempts to expose their corruption.
Unable to understand that the voices were not external, Dad ripped out the electrical wiring in his house, and lived from that point forward with the use of three electrical generators and a wood stove. At night, he read by the light of kerosene lamps. Still, the voices continued.
I found a whole box of good wine. Each bottle had been opened, perhaps one glass poured, then carefully recorked, returned to its gift bag, with the card from the giver still attached. The dates on the cards spanned several years. On the box itself, Dad had drawn a huge skull and crossbones, and marked underneath, “Poisoned.”
Letters regarding the wine had also been sent to the authorities with samples included. When he received no answers, Dad wrote in a note that “they” must have stolen the samples.
As my father began to get physically sick, he convinced himself he was suffering from hemorrhoids, and began to stockpile over-the-counter remedies for the condition. When anyone in his small circle of friends suggested he see a doctor, their name appeared in his personal notes, as someone he would have to be careful of, someone “they” had gotten to.
Besieged by the crippling pain of colon cancer, and the growing chorus of mixed messages that grew ever louder in his mind, Dad became even more fearful that he could not defend himself against his enemies. He bought over a dozen handguns from acquaintances less interested in doing the right thing than in making some quick cash.
I still breathe a sigh of relief that no unfortunate situation arose — at least none that I know of — and wonder what kind of opportunism would make people sell guns to someone like my father without any thought as to what the tragic results might be.
FINALLY, A NEIGHBOR’S CARE
Finally, during the bleakest part of a January ice storm, a neighbor called on my father, and found that his plumbing had frozen over completely. Dad had been too weak to feed the wood stove or start up the generator. After the neighbor got the generator working, he went home and, ignoring my father’s threats, called for both the police and an ambulance. I owe this man a debt of gratitude that I can never repay.
I know that my father was raised by a devoutly religious woman, who so trusted in the goodness of priests that when Dad was two, and her own husband deserted her, she put him into the foster care of Jesuits, while she went to work. I also learned from my father, during the short period of time we were reunited before he died, that he was abused by several of the priests. When he tried to confide to his mother what was happening, she screamed hysterically that he was going to burn in hell. She then renounced him and walked out of his life. The abuse continued until Dad was old enough to join the military, just as World War II began. He told me that from that time forward, he renounced Catholicism. I have a feeling, though, that he still held strongly to the concept of sin and punishment.
I lack the naiveté to suggest that forgiveness is a panacea for all ills. But the love and understanding I gained from those last opportunities to be with my father has lightened my load and my outlook on life, and helped me to touch others with what I hope is greater compassion.
While I do not personally believe in the hell that my grandmother relegated her own son to, on the off-chance that anyone reading this does, I suggest my father deserves a special “Get-out-of-hell-free” card — although I rather doubt that hell could be as unforgiving as the nightmare life he lived.
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Bea Magnan is a writer and columnist who lives in Canada.