Deeply Felt: My Dad Died & All I Got Were These Disney Coffee Mugs

Complicated grief, in real time

My father died on Monday night.

Part of me wants to end the post with that. Share a beautiful picture of the two of us and caption it with a broken heart emoji while I thank you for your condolences. But that’s not what Deeply Felt is all about. That’s not what I’m all about. So, I’m giving you the truth of my grief. Because it is messy and layered and I feel like if I can’t be honest about it, I won’t ever find peace.

And also because my therapist is on maternity leave.

Some of you know that I had a “complicated relationship” with my dad. I put that in quotes because it’s how us wounded type simplify what requires years of therapy to untangle. My father suffered from severe manic depression—heavy on the manic.

From the time I was 12 and hiding in an attic with my mom, fearful for our safety during his first psychotic break, I have lived in the shadow of an illness that he either wouldn’t accept he had, or wouldn’t stay on the medication that allowed him to be safely in my life.

But like anyone, Roger A. Hoover wasn’t just one thing. And I want you to know the best of him too.

My dad was a life of the party, raconteur kind of guy who loved to sing the loudest in church, had a deep affinity for April Fool’s pranks, and took great pleasure in lovingly embarrassing me during our frequent trips to Disneyworld when he lived in Florida.

Celebrating my eldest son’s 1st birthday at Disney, as one does.

He was an amateur pilot and adventurer who flew me, literally and figuratively, through some pretty turbulent storms. We went skiing in Breckenridge and sailing in the Virgin Islands. We ate delicious meals, often with my friends who thought he was a very cool dad. And they were right. We loved going to the movies even though he almost always fell asleep but swore he didn’t.

He was a Vietnam Veteran. A brilliant mind. A devoted Christian.

But. And. Also.

He caused me lifetimes of pain. Agonizing, fall on the floor sobbing kind of pain. His manic episodes were accompanied by psychotic delusions—emotionally abusive, dangerous, at times criminal, and filled with the kind of actions and vicious rhetoric that are hard to forgive, much less forget.

And even when he wasn’t manic, he was often just manipulative and cruel. Particularly when it came to women. And I, the “apple of his eye,” was the woman who stayed the longest. I wore my good daughter badge with honor and often judged those who broke free from him—whether by choice or because he eventually set fire to all the ties that bound them. But I was always the one who came back to pick up the pieces.

Until I broke.

In 2016, when my husband was going through brain cancer treatments, my dad went off his lithium (again) because he wanted to try a different medication. Unsurprisingly, a manic episode ensued. One in which he believed he was going to be the next President of the United States. I begged him to get help. But pleading doesn’t really work when someone thinks they’re God and it’s everyone else with the problem.

At that point, navigating my dad’s mental illness couldn’t be the main priority in my life anymore. My husband had cancer, and I had two young sons who needed me. After decades of just absorbing every excruciating moment of his mania, I gave him an ultimatum.

I said if he didn’t check himself into the hospital, I couldn’t have a relationship with him. He told me it had been an honor to be my father but he wouldn’t accept my threat. I was no longer his daughter. He never wanted to hear from me again.

Of course I know he—or at least the lucid, loving version of him—didn’t mean it.

But. And. Also.

How much pain is a person supposed to endure in the name of being a good daughter?

When he flew across the country after evading police intervention and wanted to come see his grandchildren “one last time,” I knew I was done. I would never, under any amount of guilt, put my children through the terror and confusion of having to placate a man who would go to any lengths necessary in order to avoid losing his manic high.

For the following seven years, I had little to no contact with him. It was the most peace I’ve felt since I was a kid swinging underneath my grandparent’s magnolia tree. I loved my father from the deepest part of my soul. Like, I’m pretty sure I’m the reason John Mayer wrote that shitty song about fathers being good to their daughters—that’s how much I loved him.

But I loved my kids more. And by placing that boundary, I began to see just how much of myself I had sacrificed for a man who once had me served with lawsuit papers in the middle of the night because he was trying to sue me for slander.

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Around this time last year I was in Nashville for work, which is not too far from where my dad lived at the time. I knew he was having some health issues, and I felt strong and stable enough to crack open my heart just wide enough for us to have lunch.

I’m so glad I did. I soaked up some Papa hugs—the big bear hug kind that only he could give. And I believed him when he told me he was sorry for all the pain he caused me; I still do. The people in my life who knew our history were skeptical. They wanted me to tread lightly. I wanted to believe we could write a Disney ending to our father/daughter journey.

I don’t remember when exactly, but at some point my dad gave John and me these matching Minnie and Mickey mugs. I love these mugs. To me, they represent so much of what I adored about him. His silly humor, his unwavering dedication to Disney, and a callback to when I was a kid and he used to sing in his fullest, deepest choir voice to try and wake me up.

I was open to making more memories after our lunch. I believed he had finally gotten straight with himself about his illness. But instead, less than six months later, he was in the throes of another manic episode after going off his medication. The specifics are too troubling to share, but were worrisome enough that I was able to get him involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric facility. I told him how much I loved him and that I wanted him to be safe. He told me he was done with me for good.

That was in April. By late August I was informed that he had multiple forms of cancer and the end was near.

He didn’t want to speak to me.

I loved my father. My father loved me.

But. And. Also.

This pain is so complicated and I don’t yet know when or how relief will find me. I needed to tell you the story, though. I need the truth of the turbulence in my heart to be freed. I need his last cruelty to not haunt me.

And I hope, even after all this, you will still send me your condolences. I sure do need them.

💔