Respect to a Schwan

Yesterday was one of those hard days that I hope to never forget. I admittedly had to self-reflect, and except the present moment of life I’m in.

Yesterday I mourned over the death of a man I never met. My biological father. His name was Frank Q. C. He was 73 years old, and was an undiagnosed schizophrenic.

I would love to place a picture of him to

 show our possible resemblance, unfortunately I don’t have any to present. I have a few pictures in my belongings of him 24 years ago, that I’m sure are tucked away in an unappreciative storage unit somewhere, and In that same storage unit I have a trucker hat that belonged to him; however I don’t see them resurfacing anytime soon.

The feelings that pertain to my biological father have always been nonexistent. I’ve spent an exceptional amount of my time craving love, compassion, and acceptance from the man that I call my father, that I forget that there was another man out there who is the true reason why I am here.

He was sick, yes.

I obviously do not thank him for making me the woman I am today.

He was very sick.

He use to board up the windows in fear from hallucinations, and would disappear for weeks without any knowledge of where he was. He would throw full plates of food at the wall, and insist my sister did ridiculous chores.

However he had an incredibly difficult mental disorder. This man had no idea he had schizophrenia, and Lord only knows how long he went before he was even diagnosed (if he ever was). I admire my mother for getting herself and 3 children out of such a dangerous home. However I cannot blame my biological father for being the man he he was.

My mother called me yesterday at 2:15, while I was getting ready for work. Immediately I thought she was calling to tell me something had happened to my grandfather, who was just released from the VA hospital that day.

I didn’t pick up out of fear. I knew someone had died.

“Annie call me…”

I call her back, my heart beating out of my chest.

A lot of the stuff she said was blurred out in my mind. I just kept wishing she would get to the point. I don’t remember much from the phone call except “….. Frank passed away.”

No emotions, besides relief it wasn’t my grandfather.

The realization didn’t hit until I text my two best friends. They both immediately called me to confirm my feelings are justified and they were here for me.

I go to work and tell no one. Even though I wanted everyone to know.

My mother planned on telling my brother at dinner in person. I waited and waited to hear from him. Nothing.

at 8:00 I text him and asked how dinner was. “Did mom talk to you?” I truly needed someone to talk to about this. He is the only son Frank ever had.

“Oh lol yeah. Whateves, I didn’t know the dude haha.” 

My heart was gone. Through my feet on the floor. How am I suppose to feel right now?

I came home and casually mentioned I wanted to talk to him about it. However all I got out was, “My dad is way cooler.” and “It’s about time, he was what.. 72 years old.” and then quickly announced he was going to bed.

I cried all night long. Mourning shouldn’t be done alone. All I wanted to do was fall asleep and stop thinking about how disrespectful my brother was to the memory of the man who held our mother’s hand while we were both born. Even though he suffered from schizophrenia, that does not give anyone the right to disrespect his memory.

He has one other daughter who lives a few hours away. She is how my mother found out about his death. I plan to reach out to her, and learn as much as I can about this man.

Because without him, I would be but a figment.

And I will always show him honor for that.





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