(Trigger Warning – Death, Substance Abuse, and Suicidal Ideation)

Originally Published March 22, 2023

“You don’t have a drinking problem unless your glass is empty” – Anthony Peter Kligis Jr (Pete/My Dad)

I got that call,

The one that no one wants to answer –

But I had to.

It’s February 2016, and I’m in San Diego, California, celebrating my younger brother’s graduation from the Marines. His ceremony was the day before, and my boyfriend and I had just run a 10k race. We are out to eat at a boujee brunch place in the Gaslamp Quarter and are stoked for Nutella waffles and strawberries.

As I go to pick up my fork, I get three missed calls from family members I rarely talk to. My stomach sinks with dread. My boyfriend tells me to answer, but I freeze. Every ounce of my body screams: Something bad has happened to someone I love. It’s a stark contrast to the joy and celebration of my brother’s graduation and our victorious 10k race just moments ago.

I pick up my cell phone, and my uncle tells me that my dad was found dead outside his house. He drank himself to death and froze outside while his little puppy watched him out the window for 3 days.

I hung up the phone and ran out of the restaurant. I just started running. My boyfriend chases after me. “Leeanna Wait!!” But I couldn’t. I kept running as though I could go back to 3 days ago and find my dad alive. I ran like I could change his mental illness and drinking. I ran like this was a nightmare I could wake up from if only I ran fast enough.

The last time I saw my dad alive was on Christmas Eve 2015. I was sober, and he was getting lit up on fireball. We had a lot of fun laughing and playing cards against humanity with my grandpa and younger sister. Our relationship was complicated, filled with moments of joy and frustration. I had no idea this would be our last encounter.

Before my dad married my mom in the mid-80s and moved us to the tiny little town of Florence, Wisconsin, he had a very exciting life in Chicago. He was 50% Rockstar and 50% Vagabond.

My dad was notoriously cheap and had no shame in what he did to save a buck. In his younger years, he knew precisely when Burger King threw out their food and regularly visited their dumpster. He reused dental floss and refilled expensive liquor bottles with bottom shelf.

He would freak out if we left the lights on and monitored our thermostat like it was his job. His frugality, while sometimes comical, often created tension in the household. When we went on a rare vacation, he refused to use any luggage. He preferred a brown paper bag.

Pete was in his mid-20s when he started dating my mom. He worked as a garbage man during the day and played in a rock

band in Chicago at night. He also grew massive marijuana bushes that he called atomic tomato plants. Before he moved to Wisconsin, he sold weed and bought our family house in cash, never having had a credit card in his life.

When he would get “gifts” for my mom, she always knew where they came from, the trash. They were an incredible couple. My dad had hair down to his butt and drove a van called the pussy wagon. That’s what he took my mom on during their honeymoon.

“Pete, are you seriously taking me to Colorado in the pussy wagon?”

“Threse, this thing is tried and true. Don’t let the smell bother you.”

Their honeymoon was straight out of a movie. My dad drove up and down the mountains drunk as my mom had mini panic attacks the whole way. They went hiking and camping and tripped acid all over Boulder. When they heard wildlife, my dad assured my mom that she was safe, and he pulled out a plastic fork for their protection.

After my parents moved from Chicago to Northern Wisconsin, they slowly became miserable. They left most of their friends behind and didn’t have many hobbies outside of partying.

When I was a teen, my parent’s marriage had already fallen apart. My mom slept on the couch, and he slept in their room. I never saw them hug or kiss. They avoided each other by overworking and overdrinking. 

My dad made under 45,000 dollars a year to support a family of five. Money was beyond tight. My parents lived in scarcity, and there was never enough. My dad would hide cash from my mom, and it was a weekly argument about getting grocery money. I will never forget the enormous blowout because I needed 10 dollars for a school field trip. We were the family that had a large outstanding lunch bill at school. It was embarrassing.

My dad only missed one day of work, which I can recall, but he missed almost every day of my life. He woke up each weekday at 4:13 am, blared an obnoxious morning talk show on an old staticky radio called Bob and Tom, worked as a propane delivery driver until 5:20 pm, drank three beers, smoked four cigarettes, went to bed at 7:15, and repeated. The weekend, on the other hand, was a different story. He would switch to hard alcohol, get drunk, and frequently fall in the yard or pass out in alarming places—an excellent thing for his kids to see.

My parents finally got a divorce when I was 20 years old. One weekend, I came home from college to help my younger brother and mom move their things out of our childhood house and into her new place. As we were pulling into our house, there my dad was, lying face down in the driveway; I instantly thought he was dead. I tried to keep calm, so I told my mom to drive my kid brother and his friend away so I could deal with the situation.

I called 911, and as the local cops arrived, my dad said he was going to blow his brains out. Joy. He was taking the divorce horribly. The police officers took his guns, and my dad went into detox for a couple of days. They gave him pills to curb his cravings for alcohol, but he flushed them and went right back to drinking when he got out. They always do.

Pete had a wild childhood and early adulthood, and then things got quiet. He didn’t quite know how to retire from his hectic life and become a father. My dad was absent most of my life but always felt tremendously proud of his three kids. He religiously cut out newspaper clippings of us and saved them all.

When I was 17, my Dad and I were outside shooting hoops, and he said, “I think it’s time we have that birds and the bees talk.” I started laughing, “Dad, you’re a little late.” Then he said, “Don’t get knocked up.” I said, “Okay, Dad, I won’t.” And I kept my word to this day.

During the times I was fucking around and drinking too much, my dad would always say – “You only get so many chances, girl.” And he was right. My favorite line he said was – “Love it while it’s good, leave it when it’s not.” If only he could have taken his own advice.

We started bonding more when I began long-distance running in college. He drove me to my first half marathon in Southern Wisconsin, and when I finished, he cheered me on with tears in his eyes. This is one of my favorite memories with him. Then I did my first full marathon in Florence, and he stood at the end with a cold beer and a huge smile. He was so supportive of my running, and I never saw him look so proud of me.

When my dad died, I was very sad, but mostly I was mad. I was angry he chose alcohol over his kids. Mad, he ignored his health. Mad, he binge-drank cheap vodka. And mad he left us at the age of 59. It sucked.

After his passing, I made all the arrangements because I didn’t want my younger brother and sister to have to do it. I planned the funeral, got him cremated, and had a celebration of life party with a keg. After the funeral, I rushed through everything: cleaning his house, selling his truck, getting rid of his belongings, and selling his house. It was all business and no grieving. I wish I would have gone slower and threw away less. I barely have anything of his now.

At the time, I was in my 1st year of a 4-year break from alcohol, and I moved through things lightning fast. I had no idea how to deal with my dad’s death, so I over-exercised, traveled, and stayed extremely busy. When it was time to spread his ashes, I had no idea what the proper protocol was. All I knew was that my family sucked at dealing with death, and they left their family member’s ashes in a safe locked up.

“We have to set Dad free!” I screamed. I grabbed his ashes and ran down to the end of my cousin’s road and spread him in a pond. I made a joke out of everything because I had no idea what to do with this heavy situation. I was unconscious and had no respect. My life was crumbling around me, and I was hanging onto the cliff with one hand.

Grieving my dad was confusing. For years, I was in denial and pretended like it didn’t happen. I just started dealing with it in the past couple of years. What has helped me the most is studying the afterlife and learning how to communicate with the dead.

I use Oracle cards and have become obsessed with repeating angel numbers. I keep my background numbers 111, 222, 333, 444, 555, 666, 777, 888, and 999 and their meanings. When I see repeating numbers, I always Google “angel number meanings.” I am slowly getting closer to my dad, and it feels good.

I have learned to look for signs like spare change, feathers, ringing in the ears, and certain songs that remind me of my dad. I have also started reading books about the afterlife and watching videos on YouTube about mediums and metaphysical coaches.

I have also learned that when spirits leave the body, they are pure and without all the illnesses and issues they struggled with during their lifetime. They can be free of their mental and physical pain, which makes me feel excellent because my dad struggled with chronic pain, horrible depression, and addiction.

What I appreciate the most is learning that I can build a close relationship with my dad, even closer than when he was alive. I make playlists and talk to him in nature, and when I see bunnies, I know it is him.

Here is the letter I wrote to my dad a year after he passed.

Dad, it’s been 1 year since you left us unexpectedly. You lived hard and died young. Thanks for creating three exceptional children and giving us your best qualities. My sister is one of the hardest workers I know; my brother is highly disciplined and genuine, and I am building my happiness portfolio daily. I miss talking to you on the phone weekly and trying to live up to your vagabond stories. All 3 of us miss carving pumpkins, jamming out, and enjoying your favorite Holiday, Christmas Eve (The last time we saw you.) Thanks for taking me to my 1st half marathon and my 1st full marathon. My favorite memories are seeing you at the finish line and telling me how proud you were. We all miss you. I can’t believe you’re gone.