Missing Michael

/ Kaisha Trzaska

“In the end, how we are viewed in death is about our living, breathing, human intention.”

Missing Michael

The Recesses of Memory

I think about my father a lot — more than I care to admit to myself, and certainly more than I would to anyone else. I think about him as much as I think about my children: he is always with me, lingering in the recesses of my mind where memories of him fade.

I am bombarded by daily reminders of him: in the slope of my brothers’ brows, in their tall, lean bodies, and in the depths of their voices — their cackling, contagious laugh; in my sister’s smile, in the shape of her eyes. I see him in my son’s thick, impossible hair and in the deep pools of my daughter’s icy blue eyes — her mischievous grin.

I see him most easily in my children because I see myself in them, and I think of how affectionate he was in those old videos with me and my little brother at their same age.

Every time I log onto Facebook, his profile stares back at me — messages from his children and grandchildren, updated yearly on holidays, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death. His phone number is still listed in my contacts; a picture of him, older and holding a puppy, sits strangely among the living.

When I search his name in Google, a hundred listings for “Felix M. Trzaska” appear — my dad’s information tangled with his father’s, his namesake: Felix M. Trzaska in Bakersfield, Felix Trzaska in the 1940 Census, Intelius reports pairing his name with mine. It is strange to see myself listed beside someone who no longer exists.

My father is lost in cyberspace — still viable, still connected, yet ultimately not. Often, I’m struck by such deep sorrow when, for a tenth of a second, I think, Oh, I need to tell him about… and realize there is no telling anything. He can’t hear me, and he can’t see me, at least not in this world… nor on my current level and depth of understanding.

I stare longingly at mirrors, trying to find a connection to him through my physical characteristics, many of which I see so clearly in my siblings but find difficult to see in myself. He said once, “I always thought you looked most like me,” in regard to the children he had with my mother.

And I greedily devour the comments that my anger — my coldness — my ability to shut down — is like his. I cherish and take a strange sense of pride in this fact.

When I watch old videos of him, I see so much loss… years of loss, a decade, a lifetime. It is funny how much the biological connection we share with particular people entangles and holds deep in the roots of our lives, whether they are present or not.

As a result of a messy divorce between my parents and mistakes frequently made by both parties, those who suffered the most were their children. I see how lost we are, and I feel swallowed by emotions I have no clue how to process.

When asked about that call — the one from my older sister telling me our father had committed suicide — I instantly remember my reaction, my sister’s voice, and my 11 ½-month-old son roaring in the background.

I have never had a shock that broke through my soul the way it did that morning. I remember all of it. I must have repeated, “I’m sorry … what?” a hundred times because the sentence “… Kaisha, Dad is dead. He killed himself” couldn’t penetrate.

I remember having a miscarriage eight weeks after his death, and that this additional loss burned all the more because I wanted so badly to have a baby that would remind me of him. I wanted something good to come out of his death — instead of mourning every December.

In the end, it was just an additional subtraction from my life. And, jaded by his own high familial death toll and that of his ex-wife’s, my husband at the time proved to be a weak support for me in the moment I needed it most.

I was alone — lost with my infant son during a time I needed to be utterly found. And I discovered that the feelings I had no clue what to do with were pushed deep into the cavity where my heart once lay beating so strongly.

The Weight of Inheritance

I can’t look at pictures, watch videos, listen to those songs, nor even see the word Dad written without tearing up — and this emotional instability over such seemingly benign things wreaks a particular havoc in my life.

My father pops up at work, while I’m driving, playing with my children, conversing with my brothers and sisters, and my mother.

How could someone I barely knew, barely remember, have made such an impact in the two years I was able to reacquaint myself with him? How could I feel this loss as profoundly as I did … and still do?

Is it because he shot himself — because it was violent? Is it all the regrets one inevitably has when we hold high a loved one after death?

My father could be an asshole. He had substance-abuse problems, depression; he was the product of the “1960s MAN,” a Vietnam War Veteran. He wasn’t necessarily a good father — not to mention husband — but how could he have been when his own parents were sorely lacking as role models, both as partners and parents?

My oldest sister mentioned that I was fortunate to know him when I did — at the end of his life — as I saw little of his negatives firsthand and would therefore be able to remember him positively.

Although this brought comfort to me in the moments after his death, it only brings envy now.

I don’t have a complete person; I have a photograph — a two-dimensional caricature of a being. People are whole as a result of their perfectly imperfect natures.

I only remember clearly two years’ worth of mundane conversations and then blurry moments neither here nor there over the span of my 29 years.

The envy I feel for my four older siblings, their mother, their families, my mother, and her family is total. They knew every aspect of his personality, every side, for good, for bad. They knew the boring, the thrilling, the sad, the happy. They have moments and memories that I will never have.

They had a complete package, and I rely on them to fill in my blanks.

As I enter a separation and eventual divorce — my father went through two of his own, became a widower on his third marriage, and left a widow on his fourth — I frequently wish I could just talk to him once more.

I wish I could just have one more conversation and he could take my hand and walk me through this intense, private, painful, confusing, and conflicting passage in my life.

I wish I could have my father in a way I never had him alive.

Really, that is what this pain comes down to … perhaps all pain comes down to the wishes, if onlys, and what ifs of a given heartbreak.

Logically, I understand why my father killed himself. I’m not angry with him. I’m angry for the little boy who was destroyed by war and lack of parental guidance — no more than guidance! — for lack of love.

I’m angry at what created my father; the life events that allowed such a darkness to creep in that he was never able to find a better way out except with death.

I mourn his many losses and his many loves. I mourn for the two women he created children with — the only human beings in this world to share a part of him that could never be touched nor replaced.

We, all seven of his children, are bound because of the love he bore our mothers.

And although he knew well ten of his beautiful grandchildren, I mourn for their loss too — the companionship and comfort I know he gave many of them.

And I mourn the loss that my own children will never know they were ever missing.

Having known him for so brief a space in time — I mourn my own loss, and the loss my siblings bear with me, and so violent the loss I cannot imagine this to ever leave us.

Intention

My father will haunt me long after I cease to exist, but in the meantime, I will try to find the lessons that he left us with. The things he never actually taught us, but the rich inheritance that his death has created for us, have provided his teachings.

The mistakes and pain he suffered, and in turn caused to the people whom he loved most, and loved him in return — These are the lessons he has left us with.

What I have gained from his death is the desperate need to keep from falling into my own abyss.

In the end, how we are viewed in death is about our living, breathing, human intention.

Our father’s intention was that there was never intention … except to survive.

In this understanding, I think I can learn a lot from what he has left me now.

Last photo with my father (December 2011)

“For my father, Michael (Felix)— and for the parts of him we keep finding in one another.”

19 thoughts on “Missing Michael”

  2. Kaisha, I am so proud of you. I know this was difficult to do and reading it breaks my heart for you, but I also hope that writing it will somehow be healing. What a beautiful writer you are…I love you…

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  4. Wish I could hug you right now. Want you to know it’s not just the anger, coldness or ability to shutdown that makes you like him. This letter is so Felix trust me its your heart that feels so deeply, that makes you love your kids and family so strongly, the integrity and desire to help others thats what makes you and all of us like Dad. It’s not how dad felt about our mothers that bind us, It’s the love he felt for us that binds us, he may have stopped loving our moms but never us.Thats the biological spiritual connection you feel. Truth I hurt & regret that you dont know the complete person that basically we were the pawns in the issues between him and his wives and his family. For me it hurts that grandma dee and them really didnt want anything to do with us because of the issues and hate that we were used to hurt him. But guess what It’s okay that is there loss. Fact is us Trzaska’s are pretty amazing and we honestly love & respect and like each other. Dad took great pride in that. Love you always and forever look forward to the Trzaska memories we will make togethor as a family for our kids to have the complete Trzaska Legacy ❤❤❤

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    • The only thing I would disagree with, and perhaps it is just the word…is pawn. I do not for a moment feel that any of us were pawns in our parents divorce (by them). I think our mothers and our father were hurt and made errors but I do not feel that any of the three of them had bad intentions. They were hurt and as a result of their hurt, their children were hurt. Mike, Pam, and Kathy aren’t calculating enough to have used us as pawns. Emotional, yes, very much so and that is were they let us down as parents.
      Now, as for extended family…that is another story.

      Like

      Reply

      • Keisha you are right. I can only talk about your dad and I the kids were never used as pawns on either side. I don’t know what your dads and moms problems were. With Mike and I it was his addiction problem I wanted the divorce not him. He had anger at me for doing that and as you said I had hurt from his addiction. I know as parents we did our best for our kids the same way your doing right now. We’re all on this earth doing the best that we can. And we all make mistakes. What can hopefully make you proud he never let his injury from war define who he was. He did everything he always did including waterskiing and racing and thats with driving a stick! Our car held the record at Irwindale raceway for its class for a year. Your dad was the mechanic and driver lol. It was a Z28 green with white strips.

        Like

  5. Kaisha if you ever have an questions about your dad you can ask me. I would love to show you the carefree funny person who he was. The innocent Mike before war I feel blessed I because I feel I got to know and love the real Mike. I don’t think he was cold it was how he protected himself. Your dad loved deeply and hurt deeply. He cared and worried about everyone but himself. I believe in my heart he sees and hears you. So talk to him and listen to that gut feeling that’s him answering you. He could still make me laugh till the very end. And I believe in time he and your mom could have been friends again. Going though divorce when feelings are raw love your children more than your anger with him. Never speak ill of their father because the only one it hurts is them. Learn from your parents mistakes. My divorce from your dad was different I divorced the addict not the man if that makes sense to you. Funny you remind me a lot of me. Remember grief is love and love never dies. I also think your grieving the what could have been with him if he was still alive. I’m here if you ever want to talk.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    • Yes, from what I gathered from him and others’ those were the issues that I mentioned in my narrative. Someone (who knew him as a child) recently commented that between those issues and the war….he never had a chance.

      Like

      Reply

      • The down hill slide started when Mike became a union Stewart at GM and he found that they were crooked. So he tried to help fellow workers with drug and alochol problems. He wasn’t strong enough and got sucked into their world. To the day he died Mike was trying to help others.

        Like

  7. I miss my buddy Mike but I know he’s in a good place. When I need to say hello, I just ask in my prayers for a message to be delivered to him and I remind him how much he means to me and to his family. We had a lot of fun as kids growing up in the same neighborhood. He was and remains one of the most important people in my life and I believe I’ll see him again. My life is better because of his friendship and influence.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    • Hi Richard,
      This is Pam I still remember to this day mike talking about your mothers pancakes And how light they were. I was blessed to be given four wonderful kids with Mike. I swear His greatest pride about himself with his hair. He still bragged about it to the end. I miss how he could make me laugh. I truly believe he’s around all of us.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply

    • Hi Richard,
      This is Pam I still remember to this day mike talking about your mothers pancakes And how light they were. I was blessed to be given four wonderful kids with Mike. I swear His greatest pride about himself with his hair. He still bragged about it to the end. I miss how he could make me laugh. I truly believe he’s around all of us.

      Like

      Reply

  8. Hello Pam and Mike’s loved ones. I know Mike was very proud of his kids and was madly in love with their mother. Like me, I know he was married a few times and although I’m not familiar with all the details, he always seemed most concerned with his family, and at times, yes, with his hair. What a good-looking guy! I’m sure wherever he is, he’s up to doing good. He’s free from the physical struggles he received from the war and he’s got a good heart. If there’s a football team where he is, he’s a MVP and probably set a few records by now.
    My mother’s pancakes were something to write about for sure! I ate 20 one morning! She left this life a year and a half ago just after turning 97. I struggled with Algebra in junior high. I recall getting tutored by Mike and one morning before a big test, I went over to the house on Camelia Ave at about 5 am and he tried his best to teach me. I’m not sure how much it helped but the teacher, Mr Getoff, took me aside on report card day and told me I was shy of a “C” by 10 points but he said he realized I had worked hard and he would give me a “C” anyway… I think my brain was just slow in developing in the Math area but Mike’s was already there. After tutoring 6 of my own kids, I finally got it. Mike and I met actually in Little League. We were in the same school but he was in a different class. Mike was pitching against my team. He was on the Pirates, as I recall, and I was on the Localites (named after the sponsor of the team, a local union). Mike beaned me and months later confessed his coach told him to bean me to intimidate me, I guess. I remember later playing coed softball at school and at this point we were in the same class. I made a difficult catch and somehow that started a friendship between Mike and me. Since we lived so close together, he on Camelia and I on Farmdale, we just started hanging out together and began a lifelong friendship. I enjoyed Mike’s family–Pat was beautiful and I’m sure still is. After the Keyawa family moved to Northridge on Parthenia Ave, my mother would drop me off at Mike’s in the morning during the summer and then she would continue on to work where she worked a UCB on Reseda Blvd. I loved riding around with Mike in the ’53 MG and playing basketball at Monroe, often against college-aged players that Mike and I would usually beat. I like to think we made a really good team.
    Mike liked going with me to church activities but confessed to me he didn’t care much for my religion. I don’t think he really knew much about what I believed but he knew what he believed in and we respected each other’s choices in that department. In later years, we would get together, sometimes where I worked at the LAPD, and we’d just visit, maybe get a snack. I know Mike had some things bothering him but I know what meant the very most to him was his family–and since that took up so much of his daily life, I’m sure he’s working on helping his family now. Whether we actually build mansions on the other side for our loved ones or just work as “guardian angels” to help them with their individual struggles and challenges, I know whatever Mike is doing is centered around the love and devotion he has for his family. Heavenly Father knows Mike’s potential for doing good and has him busy doing just that, I’m certain. Heaven truly is a better place with him there and I hope he’ll be there to greet me when my number comes up….

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

Leave a reply to Mom Cancel reply