Dads Are Complicated

Michael Joseph Brown 4/27/48-4/29/17

The day I decided not to allow my father to continue playing "absentee" in my life (thank you Jim), I drove to his house, sat on his living room floor at his feet and spilled out a childhood of shit stories that he didn't want to hear and I didn't want to say, but it had to be done. At one point, I said, "And all that time do you know what I kept hoping and praying for?" He shook his head, not wanting to speak, and to be fair after all he'd heard, most of which was "new" to him, I couldn't blame him. I told him, "I kept waiting for you to come in with your cape and save me, save that little girl who felt the world and adults around her were surely going to crush her to dust. I needed a hero and I was hoping it was going to be you. And the sad truth, at least for that little girl, was that no hero ever came. You didn't come" He was quiet a long time before he said, "Sorry about that," in that gruff voice of his. "Yeah, me too," I told him and I meant it. Sorry for a childhood of innocence lost, sorry for a relationship that never happened, no matter how desperately I wanted it to, and sorry that it had taken so long for one of us to "force" the issue, look at it from all angles, good, bad, and truly ugly.

Now I type with shaky hands and  eyes still wet with too many useless tears because my not-so-heroic dad is gone. And I find I miss him as much now as I did when he was alive, in fact in that regard little has changed. But I remember what that conversation and confession from above gave me...time. I sat with him during nearly all of his chemo treatments, whether he liked it or not. I held his frail hand and looked up stupid, useless information on my phone to entertain him (except that one time when he had me look up the actual chemicals in his particular chemo cocktail and read to him what was in them). I sat in waiting rooms where we chatted mostly about the inane while we waited for doctors to consult, test results, and the word from various nurses that he was "good to go". I got into a routine of calling him every morning just to see how his night had gone and wish him a good day. And three days before he died, our morning conversation went like this:

*Pulling into my parking space at work, listening to his phone ring. He picks up.
Me: Hey, Dad.
Dad: Morning, girl. (I could hear the tired in his voice, even though he was wide awake.)
Me: How was your night?
Dad: *long pause* About the same. But I'm awake, I'm alive, and you're OK. Today, I'll take it.
Me: For sure (reminding myself to NOT cry because I had a classroom full of students waiting for me). Have a good day, Dad. Try to eat something, okay?
Dad: We'll see. Love you girl.
Me: Love  you too.

I hung up and held it together, which is to say I pulled a trick I learned from my ornery father and shoved those emotions so deep down I'm surprised it didn't crack my entire body into a million pieces. I got through the day, and so did he, but both of us knew at our nightly conversation that the end was close.

And here I am, two years later sitting in my quiet house on Father's Day uncertain about what I'm supposed to feel. What I DO feel is angry and confused...and quietly sad. It's weird because it's like that little me of long ago is standing (or sitting) beside me and together we're still asking ourselves, "What in the absolute hell????" In the end, she and I saved ourselves (no need for a daddy superhero). In the end, she and I fought our way back into Dad's life. And we stood with him, every step, until the very end...because that's what you do when you love someone. You stick. Even when it hurts, even when it's so hard! You stick.

To my Dad--I know your Father's Day is happy, because today you are cancer free and no longer in pain. And I forgive you, even though I'm still pretty mad about some things. I'm working through them and promise you I'll get there.