To say my father and I had a rocky relationship would be a compliment.
We shared a love for music and laughter, football and food, women and wine. (OK, not wine. Vodka and beer) We travelled together, camped, went to meetings, held hands and sang Amazing Grace. He was the first person in my life to abandon me, and the first person in my life to show up when others abandoned me. He taught me to fish, to hike, to rock climb, to throw darts, shoot pool, drive a motorcycle, and play video games. He also taught me to not trust, to fear men, to doubt my instincts, to roll joints and to hate.
In short, our relationship was riddled with strife, anger, love, fear, compassion, forgiveness, heated exchanges and loving embraces.
Now...for the record, I am not by nature, a jealous person. As a matter of fact, quite the opposite. I stand in gratitude for what I have, the life I am living, the pain, the joy, the loss, the celebrations...I strongly trust that every single moment before this one has shaped me into who I am. That fact has to be embraced as glorious, wondrous, a miracle.
Then I met Inga and watched her relationship with her father.
Inga was like a mystical creature to me. 35 years old, with a double PhD from one of the most prestigious universities in the world, she was humble, beautiful, funny, kind. Mesmerizing really. Oddly, I knew her father 5 years before I met Inga. I had even encountered her once with him, but didn't realize that until one night when she was sick and I brought a care package to her house and saw who her father was/is. She called him Daddy, hugged and kissed him goodbye, brought him flowers, and was committed to staying in Newburyport because she wanted to make sure that she was as loyal a daughter to her parents as they had been parents to her.
Suddenly, I found myself envious.
My father had been sick a long time when she and I first met. I was resentful, frustrated, afraid...at him, his disease, his lack of willingness to care for himself. I was confused by my struggle to reconcile the emotional turbulence that his illnesses brought into my life, and desperate to be a "good daughter", but unable to. My internal conflict resulted in guilt, shame, and external conflict. With him specifically.
I was open with her about my feelings, which she would listen to intently, head cocked to the side as if I was sprouting a new cranium in her presence. She never seemed to judge, critique or offer advice. She would just hear me. Meanwhile, unknowingly, she would model for me what a HEALTHY father/daughter relationship could look like. The saying is true, when the student is ready, the teacher appears.
Slowly, I changed. I began reminding myself that my father really was on borrowed time. I started to see him as a fragile old man, rather than the man who had brought me so much sorrow. I was finally able to let love win.
On September 3rd my father was admitted to the hospital for the last time. For the first time in over 2 years, I spent every minute I could there with him. I was patient. I was kind. I was there for him and him alone. We laughed, we joked, we reminisced about good times....and then at 11 p.m. on the 4th I got a call that I may want to come in to the hospital as his breathing had altered. I waited for 15 minutes and then recognized that the Michigan game was not the priority, being with him was. When I got to the hospital, I realized how much the nurse had understated his condition. I crawled into bed with him, played his favorite music into his good ear, told him how much I loved him, and held him as he took his last breath at 12:40 a.m.
The past month has been a literal roller coaster ride of emotions as I have dealt with the loss of my father. It amazes me how a smell, the opening notes of a song, or a ride through town can send me into a spiral of tears and ache. I have picked up the phone to call him, tried swinging by his house to say hello, and strolled down memory lane with boxes of photos that he had at his home. I have been able to truly embrace sadness and joy at the thought of him, even with full awareness of just how convoluted our time together was.
The most amazing part of what I am saying is that I owe the end of my relationship with my father to the beginning of my relationship with my future wife. The biggest gift she has ever bestowed upon me is the one she never knew she gave.
She gave me my father.
