I grew up in a small, 2 bedroom, Cape Cod house in Mishawaka, IN. At the time of my birth our home only had 2 bedrooms. My two brothers in one and me and Mom & Dad in the other. There were plans for more room, but for the time being, it had to do.
On March 31, 1964 he came home from work with a terrible headache and laid down. That night, Mom put me to bed in their room in my crib (I had just turned 3).
In the middle of that night I awoke to paramedics in our room working on my Dad. Mom saw me awake and said "You're going to go to the Nimtz's house for a few days". Mom made the decision to keep me from the passing, wake, and funeral as she thought I was too young, and this was too difficult.
A few days later I came back home and everything was normal to my 3 year old eyes except Dad was gone. I have only three memories of my Father. Hugging him when he came home from work; him showing me a sled he made for me; and the night he died. Over time I guess I just sort of figured it out, because I have no memory of being told Dad was gone.
While Mom mean't well, I have had a tough time dealing with this to this day. I trust no one; I have a really hard time getting close to anyone.
Always allow the grieving process to take place no matter how tough you think it may be.
