That Day We Went to 13 Parks

I don’t think they are repressed memories as such. But I believe, as adults, we’ve all had those momentary epiphanies where we think…

I don’t think they are repressed memories as such. But I believe, as adults, we’ve all had those momentary epiphanies where we think “Ohhhh! We couldn’t have known it as kids, but that must’ve been what our parents were likely going through or feeling.” I know have. That’s what 600 years of therapy gets you.

But in a way, this is the opposite story. This is me telling my kids what I was thinking and going through at one point. Without behavioral therapy for them. But with a thank you from me. Because though I went to great lengths to disguise my suffering at the time behind the persona of “upbeat fun dad,” there was still suffering. Or at the very least, intense agitation and a sensitive stomach. And my kids probably had no idea, at the time, how much they assisted in my recovery, in alleviating my pain.

To them, the day I’m about to describe was meant to play as another fun crazy Sunday adventure I had planned for the 3 of us, in the autumn of ‘08. And it did. But it was also a fun crazy Sunday adventure meant to occupy my mind so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by grief, nervousness and an unremitting cycle of panic attacks that never seemed to know how to stop.

This is the story of the day that me and my kids visited 13 parks in Los Angeles all in one day. Ironically, our plan had been to hit many more. But on the day of our long-gestating adventure, fires broke out throughout the San Fernando Valley creating truly unbearable air quality. Even by San Fernando Valley standards. Sure we still knocked off our local Moorpark and Beaman Parks with rudimentary drive bys (we needed the numbers.) But beyond that we had to improvise. So for us, that meant we were off to the Westside. And their superior air quality.

I guess a little background is in order. My father had taken his own life the previous June. And of course, that brought with it the concomitant grief and shock you’d expect.

What I didn’t expect was for my body’s reaction to become even more severe and unpredictable as the summer months passed. I took a new TV writing job two weeks after my dad’s passing. And sold a comedy pilot (somehow) to Fox about a month later. All of this effectively took my mind off my bereavement.

Until it didn’t.

At some point, I became overwhelmed by my responsibilities. I was overcome with a seemingly non-stop marathon of uncontrollable anxiety attacks. In retrospect, it was likely the closest I’ve ever come to a nervous breakdown. At the time, I just knew that it sucked. And I wanted it to stop sucking.

Ironically, the feelings were more pronounced on the weekends when I had time to let my thoughts wander. In the last decade, I’ve become infinitely better at being left alone with my own thoughts. 2008, not so much.

As a result, my need to fill my time and head with activity that summer and fall repeatedly manifested itself as Super Fun Dad. (Which is decidedly better than Super Morose Melancholy Father.).

It meant that on Saturdays and Sundays, I liked to have a “special plan”, which always until getting and go, go, going. Often my wife joined us. Sometimes it was just me and the kids. They were 9 and 5 at the time. They obviously knew I’d lost my father. But I doubt they were making the connection between parental loss and a dad hell-bent on manufacturing “adventures” throughout the Southland.

The one that was most discussed in advance was the day we would hit as many public parks as humanly possible. At one point, the idea was to hit as many local delis as possible. But parks seemed healthier. And at $19 a sandwich, it was healthier on my pocketbook. Which isn’t to say that I didn’t spend much of that year shoving down my feelings with pastrami, mayonnaise-based salads and black and white cookies. After all, food is love. I’m only kidding Weight Watchers. It just feels like love.

So the plan was parks. And God bless my children. They were up for anything and indulging my need for constant activity. My daughter even bought a composition book so she could write down the names of parks as we went. She wrote down the first one, then retired the notebook. But the intention was there!

Presumably, you don’t need our entire itinerary. We started in Santa Monica and moved ourselves east. The three of us had different activities wherever we went. We played tennis at Barrington, did the swings at Roxbury. We saw the ducks at Douglas and ran the ramps at the park near the VA. Our journey culminated with our 13th park, the one at La Cienaga and Olympic. To do more would have crossed from adventure to madness and I always insisted on erring on giving the kids a fond memory.

I’m not sure why I’m writing about this now. The ten year anniversary of losing my dad is coming up so naturally it’s on my mind a little. And last week, with my daughter in school and my wife out of the country, my son (now 15) did a little adventuring of our own. In this case it meant checking out new Hawaiian bbq spots and high-end sushi bars. But it got us talking about the time we went to 13 parks in one day.

And it made me realize that though a lot of us spend a decent amount of time offering retroactive thanks to our parents as we get older, we rarely do the same to our spouses and children. We often, by design, hide some of the vicissitudes we’re facing and the resulting pain we’re managing.

So instead of letting my kids reach 50 and say “oh that’s what the 13 parks was about,” I wanted to tell them. And thank them. My wife, daughter and son, whether they always knew it then, guided me through a really tough spell. At the time, it may have seemed odd or fun or both that dad couldn’t sit still and always had a plan.

But what may have begun as a method of emotionally coping also now stands as some of my fondest memories of being a dad. And honestly, if tragedy can yield happiness, if losing a parent can create more meaningful moments with your own kids, then something good has come out of something bad. And I can think of no better way of honoring those that came before us.