I still miss him

Yesterday was Father's Day. I let it pass with little thought, there are no fathers in this house. My own father has been gone for seven years, it is now just another day, nothing to celebrate. Today, I was reading blogs, I read this on Selkie's blog. After I read it I cried, no sobbed. With impeccable timing, J called me in the midst of my little jag. He offered me comfort, his presence. He let me cry and he made me laugh. He made me realize that maybe now, seven years later, it is time to allow myself to cry and grieve, I certainly didn't allow it at the time.

My father and I had a rather tumultuous relationship at times, especially during those years of my teenage angst. I never appreciated him when I was young. There were times I resented him, even hated him, though he did nothing to garner my wrath. I saw him as being closed minded, stubborn, opinionated, pious. While he may have been many of those things, he was never pious. In fact, my father was a really good man, I just never knew that until I had met men that showed me how bad men could be.

My father was an engineer, he was smart, logical, methodical. Though, when it came to relationships he struggled. He struggled the most with our relationship. I was his antithesis. I followed my heart and not my head, I broke rules, I was a dreamer, I was unreasonable. Yet, I was very much his daughter, just as stubborn and opinionated as he was. He didn't understand me, but he always loved me. Looking back, I can see that my father also struggled with his sense of worth. He saw things in black and white, so all of those gray areas in his life, he saw as failure. I was probably his biggest gray area, I am sure he thought he had failed me.

I did not develop an appreciation of him until I was dealing with my own rebellious children and trying to cope as a single mom. He didn't interfere, but he made sure we never did without. Florida to Ohio was a long way, but when they visited he took care of things. Always practical, he bought us things like shoes, tools, cleaning supplies, oil for the car. When my home was in disrepair, he instructed me how to fix things, or sometimes he sent a check. I remember long distance phone tutorials on how to change water heater elements, how to put in a new electrical plug, how to unclog a disposal. Every summer we would drive to see them. I never had the money to stop at a hotel, so I would drive straight through. It was a long (13 hours) but doable trip. My father would always slip me money, just in case, enough for a room on the way home if I became too tired.

I remember Mom's call, seven years ago. Dad was in surgery, his cancer had spread, his kidneys shut down, he could die. He didn't die, he was a fighter. He called that week, to tell me he was okay and not to worry. He also gently hinted that he might only have a few months. I didn't want to believe it, I argued (a common thread in our relationship even then). "The doctors said this wouldn't kill you, they said that you would beat it." I told him I was coming, that week, I needed to see him. That marked the beginning of bi-weekly trips to Florida.

Driving Thursday or Friday to get there and driving Sunday or Monday to get home. I sat with him through meetings with Hospice, filling out the paperwork, including a DNR order. I sat with him at his computer, as he got his affairs and finances in order, watching it take hours for him to do what used to take minutes. I listened to him tell me what songs he wanted at his funeral. He admonished me to take care of Mom. I cooked for him, anything he wanted, while Mom would tell me I was wasting my time, because "he won't eat it anyway." The few bites he would take were my reward. I watched his weight dwindle and his step stumble. He still insisted on getting dressed when his clothes hung on him. My mother chastised him for not just wearing his pajamas. I went to Goodwill and bought him pants, several sizes and different styles, then I slipped them into another bag, because I knew he would never wear anything from Goodwill. I dutifully did chores he could no longer manage; "trim that tree back, it's hanging over the pool, sweep the pine straws off the driveway before they stain it."

Watching this slow demise, cast a light on my parent's relationship. I saw my father, devoted and adoring as ever to my mother. I saw my mother, resentful, angry, passive-aggressive. I realized that she was my ally in my teen years, because I expressed the anger that she felt toward him. I realized that I had always taken my father for granted, in part, because she always had. I cannot blame our conflicts on my mother, but in those final months, I strove to be his perfect daughter. I processed the truth of this new reality as I watched the disease ravage his body.

One day I called, to talk to my father, a daily routine, when I could not be with him. My sister answered and curtly told me, "we can't talk to you now, Dad just died." That was it, it was over. I was empty, a part of me was gone. I couldn't cry. I could hear him telling me, "be strong for your mother." I was glad that he never glimpsed the reality that I saw. That was seven years ago, I am no longer alone, I no longer have to be strong, I think it is time to grieve.

and on I read
until the day was gone
and I sat in regret
of all the things I've done
for all that I've blessed
and all that I've wronged
in dreams until my death
I will wander on
~Like a Stone - Audioslave