He was my dad too

Saturday, August 02, 2008

As I write this, so many emotions are going through my head and my heart. On Thursday, July 31, 2008, my sister Mary called to tell me my dad had died. Although he had been battling with cancer and his "time" was nearly due, it was still a surprise. I left work in a fog, taking the wrong road home because I wasn't going to my home, I was going to Burnsville to my former home to try to be of some comfort to my mother, who was there alone with a first responder that had responded to the 911 call. I called my husband and my daughter. I called one of my newest old friends; she wasn't there. I called Kim but remembered she sleeps in. I received a call from an old friend that I had been trying to catch up with over the weekend and she prayed with me as I drove on the wrong road, still in a daze. I'm not sure if God wasn't listening or if perhaps the prayer was too short because last night all hell broke loose and God was nowhere to be found in the chaos that ensued yesterday. I didn't belong at the "family" home. I haven't for quite a while although for the past few years I had been taking baby steps in trying to reconcile with parents who had on more than one occassion in my life let me down. With my mother, it was easier and progress was being made. We even have been meeting for lunch sometimes, emailing weekly, and occassionally conversing over the phone. With my dad, however, it was tough. Terse. Tension constantly and the fear...the fear was always there, though it seemed to be ebbing away oh so slowly. I should have left once the rest of the family got there. My part was done. They were all mourning a man they had loved and lost. I was there for my mother and to say my final goodbyes to a man different from the one they knew. But something compelled me to stay. They were all nice to me and I thought perhaps the ice was melting and I was...I was a part of the family again. I wanted to stay and hear their stories, to feel their pain and try to be of comfort. Yes, he was my dad too, but truthfully, I stopped thinking of him as that many many years ago. The reasons are my own but all were aware of them. I honestly didn't know what I was feeling because I was more concerned with my mother and my siblings' feelings, full of trepidation at my niece's reaction 'cause she was really the closest to him, and filled with compassion for my nieces and nephews that had to deal with this situation and their own griefs. Thursday night was okay. I tried to stay out of the arrangements and plans because I felt intrusive. The next morning, there was a chill in the air that didn't just come from being up in the mountains. I wasn't sure what it was but determined that I would leave after going to the funeral home and leave them to their private pains. Unfortunately, I didn't listen to that voice and am now dealing with the consequesnces. Long story short, I was rebuked, rejected, and called an intruder. While my presence there was appreciated, any voice I had was not. Anyone who knows me knows my mouth often gets me in trouble. Last night, it nearly got me punched in the face. And truthfully it would have been welcomed. For you see, even though he was my dad too, I didn't love him. I didn't hate him either, as they mostly all presumed. The lack of communication in my family is preposterous. So many assumptions that we all had about each other were strewn about. When the dust finally settled, we all were wrong. And sorry. And some amends were made but we all cut each other so deeply that even now I feel so much shame and sadness at how out of control I allowed myself to be. We understood the others' intentions and appreciated what was trying to be done. However, at 11:00 at night, after two days of mourning and angst, it was almost too late. I hurt my niece. Physically as well as emotionally. In my anger, I pushed the door she had rushed into to get away from the fussing. It slammed on her elbow and the next thing I knew, her fist was inches from my face, shouting was going on, and chaos ensued. Oh the shame of it all! God, how disappointed You must have been in me. What a sorry example of You I have been. How ashamed of myself I am! The dust settled and some semblance of peace and the hope for restoration is now there. If. If I don't blow it. If I can keep my mouth shut, my emotions at bay, and allow the love I feel so strongly for my family to flow through me. If I can ignore all of my own hurts and sadnesses. Oh, did I mention I haven't even grieved for this man yet? I had hoped at the funeral home to have had a few moments alone to say goodbye but it didn't work out that way. They all thought I hated him. Well, maybe not all of them thought that. Nonetheless, to know I did care shocked a few of them. And then they realized: Stef hurts too. Maybe she is one of us after all. Maybe she does have a right to be here. Maybe maybe maybe... But I'm not there. I'm here at my home, brushing back tears that won't stop falling from my eyes. The visitation is tonight and it's expected for me to be there. I'm sure the emotional level will again be high and the tension will need a chainsaw to even attempt to cut it. People will tell me that they are sorry for my loss; that Richard was a good man, and other truths as they applied them to the man they knew; to a man I didn't know that way. To a man who loved all of his family. All but me. He was my dad too but I never once heard him say he loved me. Never once heard praise from his lips directed at me. He was the man I feared, that I loathed most of my life, that I dreaded being in his presence, and then finally the man that my God told me I was to honor and love. I tried for years to reconcile, to forgive, to visit and make a new start with him. After all, the rest were all getting along with him, seeking him out, enjoying his company. Surely there was something good in him that I had missed so I set out on a journey to discover it. The hate dissipated. I have forgiven him for his sins committed against me and others. But you know, truthfully, it was too late. The times Steve and I visited, he barely spoke to me. His cancer was eating away at his body and he was shriveling up more and more each time I saw him. The times I would call, he'd speak to me for less than 30 seconds before passing the phone to my mother. It wasn't his COPD causing him to do this: he just didn't care. And no, I'm not being whiny. I sat there and listened as he'd take phone calls, speaking for long moments to the one on the other end. Between he and I there was mostly silence. Uncomfortable silence. What does it all matter? Tomorrow he will be buried in his family's cemetery. Tonight he will lie in his casket and I will see him for the last time. Yes, I'll go, be a part of this family that loved him, that saw things in him that were never revealed to me. I'll stand there, looking down on him, and I'll probably cry. He was my dad and regardless of what anyone thinks, I loved him too.