Dad

My father died last week. He was 92 and living in a locked-down memory ward with end-stage Alzheimer’s.

The last time we spoke was three years ago when he still mostly had his wits about him and was living at home. On that day, he’d been told some lies about me by my mother that made him scream at me and say that I acted like I hated them and that I had ruined their lives. All the while, she grinned a terrible smirking smile of satisfaction, and glared at me while he delivered her venom by proxy. He’d always sided with her through his calm, cool compliance, saying things like, “why do you make her act like that,” and “why do you have to make her so mad,” and, “why can’t you just make her happy.” But he’d never before been her stand-in. I was sure this was a symptom of the disease. And I was certain she knew that’s why she was able to make him do it. It was the last time I would see them.

I wanted to see him. He was just a few miles away in the hospital. But I knew I couldn’t go. If I did, the story would be about me being there, “why I didn’t do more, I was selfish to come now, I just came to put on a show, why did I come now but not before, I’m so awful, this is proof that they’re right about me, what do I want, blah, blah, blah…” I would be a distraction. It wouldn’t be good for anyone.

My brother flew in and got to spend time with him before he died. I’m grateful for that. I’m sure it was very hard for him. I doubt he received much kindness or support from the rest of the family. And I know he loved my father very much. They worked side by side for 30 years, ran in the same social circles, belonged to the same golf club, and held the same beliefs. They were good friends. I don’t know what that must have been like. I bet it was nice. I’m glad for them. I hope it was what it looked like from the outside. I know we can never really know what anyone else’s relationship is like. Maybe it was actually fraught and troubled. I hope it was as nice as it seemed.

I’m relieved for my father. Relieved that he’s free from the pain, the awfulness from the disease, the resentment, the fear and the judgment he held on to so tightly his entire life. I was very young, maybe eight the first time I remember him telling me, “I hold grudges, it’s just who I am. If you cross me, I’m done with you. I’ll just walk away and be done with you.” He repeated some version of that little ditty frequently. I don’t know if it was a warning to me or a reminder to himself or a way to justify having recently cut someone out of his life. But I was on the receiving end of his grudge-holding in small ways over the course of my life many times. I say small, because he eventually let me back in each time, a week or a month or a year or two later. So, I guess that makes it small.

My dad was a storyteller. The same stories were hauled out at family gatherings over and over. There’s one that I remember hearing repeatedly. But it wasn’t told in gatherings. I really don’t know how many people ever heard it outside of close family. He was little more than a toddler himself when he encountered his own father on the street. He denied him right to his face. Said he was a bastard, and his mother was a whore. It was a lie of course. If you look at photos of the two men as adults, you literally can’t tell the two apart. I think he never recovered from that and that it was the foundation of the fear and the pain and the judgment and the grudge-holding. And maybe it was even the root of the horrible ultra-right wing conservatism and hatred and distrust of so many people he felt were other and less-than and just downright bad.

The self-hatred turned outward.

In the mid 70’s we were driving home from softball practice and, as always, talk radio was on in his truck. The topic was reparations. He yelled very loudly, “if they don’t like it, they can go back to where they came from.” And I, as a 10 or 11 year old, asked what I thought was a very reasonable and smart question for discussion, “aren’t they Americans just like us?”

He screamed at me. I flinched. And he made me walk the rest of the way home. That’s the day I learned I cannot be who I am in my family. I knew that day that he would never be on my side. I learned that day to stay silent. And I ended up staying silent so long that it almost killed me.

For a very long time, before he got sick, he hated everything I loved. He hated a lot of the people I loved. The truth is, he hated me. He would never listen long enough, or take the time for any self examination to realize that he actually hated me. So I just pretended that he didn’t. For decades, I pretended. He said he loved me, but I knew he didn’t. What he valued was incompatible with love for me. The things he said and believed, the things he voted for and held close were incompatible with love for me. It broke my heart over and over again. And it was something it took me a long time to accept. I still struggle.

God, help me accept reality without attachment or judgment.

I don’t blame him. He was sick. Crap, we’re all sick aren’t we? Some of us are able to heal a bit. Some of us aren’t able to heal at all. Some of us are able to heal a lot. I think I’m still in the “little bit” category. But it’s my life’s work. So, maybe one day, I’ll be in the “big healed” group. Who knows.

He tried to be a dad.

He coached my teams.

He drove me to practice and showed up on time to pick me up.

He taught me how to change a flat tire.

He worked every day to bring in a paycheck because that’s what he believed dads do.

He bought me my first car. A bitchin’ 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. Man, I loved that car.

Thank you for trying.

I know you had no one to show you how to do it and that you really tried.

I love you dad. I hope there is peace and joy and fun where you are now. I hope you’re with people you love. I hope you’re with Uncle Bob. I hope there is bowling and golf and Coors Light and watermelon with salt on it and everything that makes you happy.

See ya later dad.