Mourning Dad

I listened to a father and his son on the subway recently one morning.  They were having a real conversation. Dad listened intently to his son’s opinion about something that had happened in school and asked thoughtful questions. It was a sweet moment and it made me feel sad.  I think about fathers a lot. Two friends, one from almost 30 years ago and the other in my current workplace, mourn the loss of their dads within the past year. Their sadness is palpable. They each had remarkable and very close relationships with their dads. I envy them. This past week was the 7^th anniversary of my father's death. I remembered him on that day (February 15), but I do not miss him. This also makes me sad.

My dad, about whom I’ve written nostalgically (In Honor of My Dad, 10/15/10), and I did not have a genuine relationship. I spent my childhood yearning after him but he was wrapped up in his own world which consisted, besides work as an electrical engineer and owner of a large mobile home park, of membership in several fraternal organizations, being a ham radio operator, running for political office, starting a paint manufacturing business, overseeing the metamorphosis of an old school bus into a state-of-the-art motor home, starting a newspaper and functioning as editor/writer/photographer, and being the president of many things. Almost every night of my early youth, he would dress up in what my sister and I called his “monkey suit” to go to a meeting at the Masonic lodge. And almost every night, I would climb up into his arms and ask him when he would be staying home with us.  He always came home after we were sound asleep, and although my mother swore he never missed a night of coming in to kiss us goodnight, it doesn’t count when you’re unconscious.

When he was home, he was a lot of fun if he wasn’t lost in thought about his own endeavors. My dad loved having kids because it gave him a chance at a second (and third) childhood. From him, I learned to love roller coasters. He taught us to swim and water ski, and maneuver a go-kart.  He swung us so high in our lawn swing that he ran right under it as he pushed. He built us a magnificent tree house and then slept out under the stars with my sister and me and our friends.  

It sounds wonderful, I know. And some of it was. But what was missing was real engagement. There were no conversations. No heart to hearts. No dispensing of paternal wisdom, guidance of any sort (except “Go ask your mother”), or reassurance. His idea of engaging with his children consisted of an occasional, “What did you learn in school today” – which always felt like an unanswerable question. Opinions ventured often resulted in tears (mine). My father had a very short fuse. One memorable moment was when I proudly announced in the first grade that if I could vote for president I would vote for John F. Kennedy. Kennedy. My father’s name was Ken. In my mind, a vote for Kennedy was an endorsement of my father and I wanted him to know I admired him. Maybe that would please him. A staunch Republican, my father did not wait for my explanation about why I felt that way  – he just blew up at my stupidity at expressing a “political” opinion he saw as opposite to his correct viewpoint. I learned to be quiet but I didn’t give up. I tried to learn the Morse code in 3^rd grade so he would think I was smart and want to teach me about his radio equipment. He drilled me on the dahs and dits which I struggled to memorize and got irritated when I made mistakes. He read books on hypnosis and past life regression. I read them when he finished, hoping we could talk about them. He played the piano. I played the piano and made it my mission to learn his first piano recital piece from his childhood. I was determined that he would notice me, value me, pay attention to me. I am nothing if not tenacious.

The nearest we came to a real conversation was my 21^st birthday, which was two days before I was to be married. I hadn’t known the man very long – not even a year. He was much older than I and from a different world. The engagement was short and very stormy.  My father came to my apartment that day bearing a dozen yellow roses and said he wanted to talk to me. This was unprecedented and I was caught, unsure of how to be, embarrassed, and wanting to escape. We had had a huge fight about a boy when I was fifteen and I’d been enraged at his audacity for thinking he could suddenly assert his authority after being absent my entire childhood. Ever since that time, being alone with him felt torturous. He cleared his throat and told me that he knew the wedding was but two days away. He acknowledged that I’d had a bridal shower; the cake and flowers were set for delivery, and my dress had been picked up. However, he wanted me to know that if I wanted, if I felt it wasn’t the right thing to do, it would be ok to change my mind and not go through with it. He was acknowledging what I knew in my heart – this was not the right man for me. But years of silence and lack of real connection and trust conspired to keep me vigilant and defensive and I was simply unable to take in his words, let alone allow them to affect me. I assured him that getting married was exactly what I wanted to do. He looked at me dubiously, but said, "okay", and took his leave. The end. Almost.

* * * * *

In early January 2004, his doctor gave him 3 weeks to 3 months to live. He had cancer of the esophagus. He wasn’t ready to die. There was still so much he wanted to do, including winning a fortune on the horses. He wanted to teach me his carefully devised system of handicapping so it wouldn’t die with him. He ran out of time. I was with him most of the last 48 hours of his life. He was weak and in pain. My sister and I dripped morphine down his throat throughout his last night and whispered in his ear what a wonderful dad he’d been while his wife slept upstairs, exhausted from long nights of his restless activity. Morning came. He’d been quiet for a few hours so when his wife awakened, I went home to my mom’s to shower and get some breakfast. As I left, my dad aroused, opened his eyes, and waved goodbye to me. An hour later, his wife called to tell us he’d taken his last breath. I watched the funeral director and his son put my father in a body bag and take him away, feeling nothing. My sister and I planned the funeral service.  We made photo collages, wrote the ceremony and presided over the event, with dad’s favorite ragtime music playing in the background. He would have approved of his send-off.

* * * * *

I remember his death seven years later and feel nothing. But the 50+ year old loss? Ever present.