My relationship with my father has always been complicated. My earliest memory of my father isn’t so much my own memory but one that was shared many times around the dinner table. After we had eaten our dinner, wanting to nurture that fragile yet promising feeling of a united family, we would ask our parents to tell us stories. We loved to hear about our origins and little things that we had done as children. First words, first steps, little victories. These were indications of our being loved, our being cute and clever, our being capable. My mother would offer this story about my father and me on these occasions. I wonder now if it were her way of trying to explain or justify the awkwardness in my dad’s and my relationship. I was born on Good Friday into the Greek Orthodox tradition. The doctor had assured my father that my arrival wouldn’t intrude with his devotions that evening at the church, and so he returned home to finish his farm chores and to prepare for the most important religious holiday: Easter. No sooner had he left, when I pushed my way into the world. My mother always adds at this part, that my dad was so disappointed when he discovered I wasn’t a boy. Another girl. So much farm work and so few hands to help. Unwanted daughter; unhappy father.
That year the spring came early and my father worked from early morning until dark seeding, harrowing, spraying, fertilizing, cultivating. And then there were all those cows to milk and chickens to feed. He would come home at night, tired and worn ragged. It wasn’t really until after the harvest that year that my father had some spare time to spend with his new daughter. By now, I wasn’t just this sleeping, pooping, crying mess of pink. My mother continues with her story oblivious to how each telling cuts deeper into my heart. She describes how when my dad comes to take me into his lap, I scream blue murder and cling to my mother for dear life. I am terrified of this strange man and I don’t want him anywhere near me. Feeling rejected and unwilling to deal with this crying tot, he turned his attention to those other two children who would climb all over him, delight in his attention and never tire of his playing horse. Oh it wasn’t that my father didn’t love me. Mostly he just didn’t know how to be with me. And I certainly didn’t understand him. As I grew older, I didn’t understand how he could be so interested in the accomplishments of other people’s children and yet not ask us about our own. I didn’t understand why he could never see the rows of weeds or piles of rock we had already picked on our spring vacations and Saturdays rather than the ones that remained.
For a brief time during high school, my dad and I shared a common interest. We participated in amateur theatre in our small rural community. We’d drive together to the rehearsals and practice our lines sometimes. I remember feeling proud of my dad when he was on stage. He had good timing and a loud voice that suited his roles. He made people laugh in a good way and they always complimented him on his performance.
But these feelings of pride were fleeting. The next several decades I seldom saw my father. I lived in another province and pursued my schooling. I got married and had a family. Going home wasn’t affordable and certainly not doable with four little kids and a second hand car. When they came to visit me, we bumped into each other’s personalities frequently and were reminded how polarized our views had become.
About five years ago while visiting my parents, I refused to ride with my Dad if he were to drive the car. Self preservation being strong, I had no desire to be in a moving vehicle with him behind a wheel. He was nervous and unaware of the traffic. He changed lanes without shoulder checking and he seldom observed a four way stop. It had become a long standing joke with my other siblings about how awful his driving had become. But none of them had ever said anything to him. That was the other thing about our relationship. I said to my dad what everyone else thought. That day I told him I would rather walk and that he was dangerous and going to hurt someone. My determination not to ride with him hurt him deeply. Interestingly enough when he told my sister what I had said and done, she agreed. He valued her opinion. My dad never got behind the wheel of the car after he spoke to her. He gave up his license and declined quite rapidly after that. Losing his independence was a slow fatal blow.
Two years ago, shortly after Christmas my dad got pneumonia and was hospitalized. For a few weeks he was quarantined. Within days, my brother called to say that my father was dying. That infamous death rattle of the near dying had begun and while the medical team were doing everything possible to make him comfortable, my brother said Dad would not make it through the day. I had lots to remember during that three hour commute to where my Dad was. The blowing snow and winter road conditions created some dangerous driving. Just as I was pulling into the city and less than a mile from the hospital, I hit the ditch in a blind swirl of snow. It took several minutes for me to rock my way out. I did not panic; I was acutely aware of the limited time and that perhaps I might be too late. When I arrived up in my father’s room, my mother and brother were tired from their day long vigil. My dad was not conscious and his breathing was loud and erratic. He had lost weight since I had last seen him and his color was so poor. He smelled horrid and his open mouth made him look frightful. But he was still alive. I'm told that the dying choose with whom they die and when. All I knew at that moment was that my dad had waited for me. I prayed for help and for love and for the right words. I took my father’s face in my heads, cradled it close to me and told him it was alright, he could go now. He didn’t have to stay any longer. I told my Dad I loved him and in truth at that moment I knew I did. I told him of those who awaited joyously for him and couldn’t he seem them yet? I told him of a time when we would see each other again and how we would embrace without hesitation or hurt or awkwardness. I told him that I was so glad that he was my father and that I had learned so many things from him. In truth his actions taught me more than his lessons or words but it didn't matter: I had learned valuable lessons from him. I became keenly aware that I was coaching my dad into death. I told him that he could go. He didn’t need to wait any longer. "It's all right Dad between us." It was all right and it was time now for him to leave. And so he did. With one last movement with his fingers as if to make the sign of the cross, my father took his last breath and left.
I visit my father’s grave sometimes bringing him flowers and talking to him about this or that. I don’t believe he is there but I do hope that he knows that I think of him. I love my father and I look forward to the resurrection when we will be reunited. No more strangers but fellow citizens.
That year the spring came early and my father worked from early morning until dark seeding, harrowing, spraying, fertilizing, cultivating. And then there were all those cows to milk and chickens to feed. He would come home at night, tired and worn ragged. It wasn’t really until after the harvest that year that my father had some spare time to spend with his new daughter. By now, I wasn’t just this sleeping, pooping, crying mess of pink. My mother continues with her story oblivious to how each telling cuts deeper into my heart. She describes how when my dad comes to take me into his lap, I scream blue murder and cling to my mother for dear life. I am terrified of this strange man and I don’t want him anywhere near me. Feeling rejected and unwilling to deal with this crying tot, he turned his attention to those other two children who would climb all over him, delight in his attention and never tire of his playing horse. Oh it wasn’t that my father didn’t love me. Mostly he just didn’t know how to be with me. And I certainly didn’t understand him. As I grew older, I didn’t understand how he could be so interested in the accomplishments of other people’s children and yet not ask us about our own. I didn’t understand why he could never see the rows of weeds or piles of rock we had already picked on our spring vacations and Saturdays rather than the ones that remained.
For a brief time during high school, my dad and I shared a common interest. We participated in amateur theatre in our small rural community. We’d drive together to the rehearsals and practice our lines sometimes. I remember feeling proud of my dad when he was on stage. He had good timing and a loud voice that suited his roles. He made people laugh in a good way and they always complimented him on his performance.
But these feelings of pride were fleeting. The next several decades I seldom saw my father. I lived in another province and pursued my schooling. I got married and had a family. Going home wasn’t affordable and certainly not doable with four little kids and a second hand car. When they came to visit me, we bumped into each other’s personalities frequently and were reminded how polarized our views had become.
About five years ago while visiting my parents, I refused to ride with my Dad if he were to drive the car. Self preservation being strong, I had no desire to be in a moving vehicle with him behind a wheel. He was nervous and unaware of the traffic. He changed lanes without shoulder checking and he seldom observed a four way stop. It had become a long standing joke with my other siblings about how awful his driving had become. But none of them had ever said anything to him. That was the other thing about our relationship. I said to my dad what everyone else thought. That day I told him I would rather walk and that he was dangerous and going to hurt someone. My determination not to ride with him hurt him deeply. Interestingly enough when he told my sister what I had said and done, she agreed. He valued her opinion. My dad never got behind the wheel of the car after he spoke to her. He gave up his license and declined quite rapidly after that. Losing his independence was a slow fatal blow.
Two years ago, shortly after Christmas my dad got pneumonia and was hospitalized. For a few weeks he was quarantined. Within days, my brother called to say that my father was dying. That infamous death rattle of the near dying had begun and while the medical team were doing everything possible to make him comfortable, my brother said Dad would not make it through the day. I had lots to remember during that three hour commute to where my Dad was. The blowing snow and winter road conditions created some dangerous driving. Just as I was pulling into the city and less than a mile from the hospital, I hit the ditch in a blind swirl of snow. It took several minutes for me to rock my way out. I did not panic; I was acutely aware of the limited time and that perhaps I might be too late. When I arrived up in my father’s room, my mother and brother were tired from their day long vigil. My dad was not conscious and his breathing was loud and erratic. He had lost weight since I had last seen him and his color was so poor. He smelled horrid and his open mouth made him look frightful. But he was still alive. I'm told that the dying choose with whom they die and when. All I knew at that moment was that my dad had waited for me. I prayed for help and for love and for the right words. I took my father’s face in my heads, cradled it close to me and told him it was alright, he could go now. He didn’t have to stay any longer. I told my Dad I loved him and in truth at that moment I knew I did. I told him of those who awaited joyously for him and couldn’t he seem them yet? I told him of a time when we would see each other again and how we would embrace without hesitation or hurt or awkwardness. I told him that I was so glad that he was my father and that I had learned so many things from him. In truth his actions taught me more than his lessons or words but it didn't matter: I had learned valuable lessons from him. I became keenly aware that I was coaching my dad into death. I told him that he could go. He didn’t need to wait any longer. "It's all right Dad between us." It was all right and it was time now for him to leave. And so he did. With one last movement with his fingers as if to make the sign of the cross, my father took his last breath and left.
I visit my father’s grave sometimes bringing him flowers and talking to him about this or that. I don’t believe he is there but I do hope that he knows that I think of him. I love my father and I look forward to the resurrection when we will be reunited. No more strangers but fellow citizens.
4 comments:
Nothing like an early morning cry to start my day!
YOu are such a good writer. You are so able to express your feelings in tender words.
Daer Bonnie -
How tender, how poiniant, how difficult, and how familiar. I'm sorry my dear friend for the pain you had to bear, and yet I'm sure it is those difficulties that has made you the loving, kind, compassionate, understanding and humourous person you are. I am glad you have such a wonderful attitude toward your dear father now. I'm sure he reciprocates your tender feelings, now. Thank you for sharing your deep tender heart-felt sentiments in such an eloquent manner.
This is just heart wrenching! I know your relationship with your dad was complicated, but your love for him really shows in this thoughtful post.
Uncle Chris was a fiesty guy and I understand your relationship with him much better after reading that. I knew things were "complicated" but never quite knew why.
---Mark.
Post a Comment