Navigating The Complex Emotions Of Fathers Day
A Real, Raw, Honest Journey Of Learning, Forgiveness and Grace
The story below is very raw and honest about my father and myself. The following story has PTSD, suicide references, and substance abuse themes. I wanted to flag BEFORE anyone started reading so that I could be upfront about whether any of those themes were concerning or triggering.
Summer brings a mixed bag of emotions for me. The days grow longer, offering more time to be outside, enjoy the surf, run the dog, and play. However, every year, the Sunday on Father's Day has always loomed over me, and in recent years, for many mixed reasons. For most years, it's been rooted in anger, hiding my past, or masked by my family, or, as of now, a mixture of it all with a healthy dose of shame. As days click by toward that Sunday, the anticipation is so overwhelming that I imagine myself sleeping in those futuristic space pods in a year-long sleep on my way to Mars, or at least until the mid-June weekend has passed by.
I love my parents. It seems easy to say, but growing up, that wasn't always the case. Of course, I loved them, yes, but I quickly grew apart from them. As I've written about before, part of my professional success stems from my ability to run away and forge my own life—a trait built partially as a reaction to my parents and my home life. Good or bad, this trait propelled me into my career and fueled my drive for success.
Watching both my parents die from cancer three years apart left me with haunting, unresolved issues. My mom and dad did their best to raise my brother and me. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but I now see they were trying to be the best parents they knew how to be. Sometimes, that’s all we can ask of someone - just be the best you can. That is the overarching theme of today. Just be the best and be the best you can.
Today, I’m thinking of my dad. Dan Mark Toppenberg. My dad was a Vietnam vet. He did a tour in the late '60s before I was born, and suffice it to say, it messed him up deeply. Many nights in my youth, I remember hearing my father screaming while he was dead asleep. The flashbacks were dreams triggered by his experience in the war. The PTSD, the effects of Agent Orange, and witnessing his friends killed by IEDs and mortars were all experiences he had, and almost nightly, those memories came back in his sleep.
Dad was a communications officer on the front lines in Vietnam, carrying huge backpacks with a giant floppy antenna and an old-school rotary phone handset. It was the craziest-looking thing, but it was all they had in a world of no cell phones. He didn’t do the talking, only carrying the backpack so the officers could radio back to the troops and let them know it was clear to advance. More than once, he regaled stories of how he would wake up in the morning with his friends, all having breakfast, and then they left for the front; they all knew there was a great probability of an empty bunk at the barracks that night.
He talked about the M.A.S.H. units and the horrors he saw during the war. He was open, sharing a lot with a young child; little did I know it might have been the only talk therapy or counselor my father ever saw. Even today, I still can't wrap my brain around what that must have been like for him decades after the war.
Dad tried to put a happy face on it. Games they would play and also stories about guns, fistfighting, and survival. One story I have never forgotten was about an airplane called "Puff the Magic Dragon." I think he was trying to make it ‘fun’ because of the plane's name - but its purpose was anything close.
This airplane was deployed into the war in 1967. It was an AC-47, one of the first fixed-winged gunships the Air Force developed. It had one of the biggest guns ever in an aircraft. Later in life, I came to understand what this plane did and its relationship to Dad.
During the day, the advance team would move into the jungle where they thought the enemy was, radio back to the base, and then this plane would come in and wipe out a football field's worth of double-canopy trees at night. In the morning, he'd advance with the platoon, survey the carnage, and report back for troops to move forward. This wasn't just a one-time event for him; this was his life, month after month. Dad would go on and on about Puff, how awesome it was, how you had to see it in person. I remember how excited he was every time he told me Puff stories.
Over my parent's bed, in the house I was raised in the northwest part of OKC, there was an old .45 automatic pistol. It was an actual gun (unloaded; no rounds were in the weapon) in a brown frame with no glass. This gun was my dad’s sidearm during the war. When I was home alone, I would climb up on the bed, get the gun down, and play with it. Pretending I was Dad. I would also grab the phone, pull out the cord through the RJ-11 jack, and pretend to call for Puff to come and do its thing.
I can only imagine the shit I’d be in if either one of my parents knew I was playing with that gun, which is why they never knew. Dad only shared one story about that pistol. He talked about how he had it on his side during the war, he slept with it, and it’s why it’s always over his bed. He told me it was an escape, a way out. It was how he could get out of danger and also end his own life. Anytime a conversation came up about that gun, it always ended with his way out.
Later, I realized it wasn’t a firefight he was talking about; it was suicide. I never understood why he told me about him wanting to take his life. I think a part of him was asking for help, and he knew I wouldn't think less of him, but that’s a lot to put on an eight-year-old boy.
The amount of compartmentalization my father had to endure and teach himself had to have been extraordinary. In the late 70s, 80s, and even through today, talking about mental health wasn't vogue; it had a stigma. Not to mention the expense—there's no chance we could have afforded it in Oklahoma. Dad just buried it all. It was one trait I picked up from him and have had to unlearn.
Dad was a proud man; he kept so many things to himself, so many that it literally killed him. In early December 2017, my brothers and I got a call from our dad's third wife that he was in the VA hospital and not doing well out of the blue. We dropped everything, flew back to Oklahoma, and drove to the VA. We walked into the room and barely recognized him.
The cancer had become pervasive; he was on dialysis, breathing tubes, feeding tubes, fully cathed—I was speechless. "How in the hell did this happen?" I remember yelling as my brother, and I began to try to manage the impossible situation. We were shocked.
It turns out that Dad was diagnosed with cancer many years before this moment. He concealed it from everyone, even his wife - another demonstration of his skill at compartmentalization. However, this concealment would kill him; there would be no way to hide or find another ‘way out,’ as he often said.
As a vet, all his doctors and health care were through the Oklahoma City V.A. hospital. What became clear to us going through our dad’s medical records was that when our dad was diagnosed, he never intended to go through chemo. He booked follow-up chemo appointments, and they never showed up. We later learned through his phone that he put those appointments in but would tell his wife they were for other routine blood tests. But where did he go? I have no idea. Hopefully, he did something fun with those hours. He hid his death sentence from his friends, family, and likely himself, one of the horrible by-products of compartmentalization. Cancer was his death sentence, and he accepted it, never wanting to fight it.
I imagine my dad never wanted to become what he saw in those halls—men, women, soldiers, fathers, mothers, and more—horrible reminders of the wounds of war. I can hear him saying, "You didn’t support me in ‘Nam or when I got home. Fuck you, government - I’ll deal with it myself." Yeah, he could be a bit stubborn.
Having the privilege, and I do believe it is a great privilege, to be with your parents when they transition is a sacred moment. Holding my dad's hand as he took his last breath, I thought it would bring a certain closure to me, but it didn't—it spawned more questions with no real answers or healing.
I see now, more than ever before, that as much as we want our parents to be perfect humans, it's just impossible. They do what they can to the best of their ability. That is what my first big aha was; they did the best they could. Hell, yes, I wish it was better, and I didn’t have to bear his outbursts, his wraths, but was it the best he could do. I see it now, and that’s the message I want to share.
Dad never got the opportunity to be treated for mental health issues, diagnose his PTSD condition, or deal with his substance and anger issues. Those were left for me, my brothers, and my mother to endure. I want to be clear: By no means does this become an excuse or a hall pass for my father or anyone to act out, lash out, or cause harm. PERIOD. My message is a bit more nuanced. I am at peace and understand the events that led to those traumatic childhood episodes that still haunt me, and through much work, I can today empathize, find some grace, and understand what he must have been going through.
Mental health, especially with men, is no joke. Forty percent of men have NEVER spoken to anyone about their mental health. NEVER, not a single moment. Further, men are four times more likely to die by suicide, making up nearly 80% of all deaths by suicide. Let that sink in for a moment.
When I read that statement, I visualize that .45 in my house and the stories my father told. I don't know how he pulled himself through many of those dark times. I struggle with my demons, but Dad had some behemoths.
I have talked openly about my mental health journey through my crucible, but it bears repeating. Hundreds upon hundreds of therapy sessions for me over the past three years (and counting.) Not just talk therapy but also DBT training, EMDR, and others. Not only has it saved my life, but it has broadened my view and changed my relationships, even with my parents, after their deaths.
The work I have done and continue to do has led me to know one thing for sure: my parents, especially my father, did the best they could do to the best of their abilities. That realization and honesty with myself and their spirit has helped bring closure. When I think about where I am today, I often drift into a place where if I had that same realization while they were alive, what beautiful moments, conversations, and love we could have shared before they both passed.
This epiphany was so strong that I wrote my father a letter in which I forgave him for the terrible moments I endured from him, which I have used as an excuse for my behavior for many years. Citing my abuse and using some well-taught compartmentalization skills to run from my own shit. It’s easy to blame your parents; it's too easy. And even easier when they are gone.
The harder work is to hold yourself accountable, not project your shit onto someone else, but if you do, people tend to blame childhood. As I wrote to Dad and Mom, I didn’t do that; instead, I thanked them for being the best father and mother they could be and apologized for not being there enough for him, her, and everyone: honest acknowledgment, vulnerability with myself to them, and comfort on the other side. A deeper peace began to sweep over me about my parents.
Dad was laid to rest somewhere in Durant, OK—a place I had only visited as a child playing baseball tournaments, but his new family showed him love and made him feel welcomed there.
A few years after his death, I flew to Oklahoma and drove to the VA hospital, where he took his last breath. I walked the halls, looking at the faces of all the vets wounded on the outside and inside. I couldn’t help but think about all those people and imagine what is the truth for them. How are they? Does their family know they are here?
Awash with emotions, I walked the floor. The place was frozen in time; it looked and felt exactly like the last time I was there in 2017. I walked in, knowing the route to his ICU room, never having to ask for directions. I looked into that room; a total stranger was in there now. They were alone, I thought, and I contemplated if anyone knew they were there. Then I just told myself their family is; they are just getting food.
I left the room and went to the hospice wing, where he passed. The room he occupied was vacant, certainly not for long - another temporary tenant was about to check in. Holding a letter labeled "Dad," but I didn't know where to leave it. I found my way to the chapel, thinking this might be the best place. I said a prayer, broke down in tears, and walked out searching for a Cherry Dr. Pepper at a Sonic, one of Dad's favorites.
No parent is perfect; God knows I'm not. I have made many mistakes, but I try to be better each day and show myself some grace. Parenting, adulting, whatever you want to call it—it's fucking hard. You try your best not to repeat the pathology of your youth, but you never know; you just might.
One thing is true about fathers: you only have one. You can hate him; you can love him; you can resent him, but you only have him. Ask yourself, did your dad do the best he could, to the best of his ability? In my case, he did. I wish I could have told him that day before he transitioned.
That’s my message from this essay: Asking the question, "Did they (Parents, Kids, anyone for that matter) do the best they could?’ Whatever answer you come up with, do this part for them and you: Have some grace - everyone is human. When you do, you’ll see it's a much more beautiful journey that way.
I imagine him now having the time of his life, joyful and happy, listening to Wille Nelson and shouting “Blue Skies and Butterflies” on his CB Radio, driving his Blue Chevy Van with shag carpet and a killer 8-track stereo system.
I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.
Nice work. Glad to see you recognize this in you and your parents. Doing the best we can with what we know at the time is all we can do. But, we can learn and grow and do better as we move along
Beautiful tribute!