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June 13, 1917
Eighty nine years ago today my father was born. Second youngest of 8, I believe. He could be cruel. He could be caring, but mostly he was to be avoided. He died in 1999. I loved him. I hated him. Growing up I knew my middle sister, his stepdaughter, didn't like him. For years I charged to his defense when she spewed hate at him. I thought she was being unfair. I thought she was jealous because I was our parent's only "real" daughter. These were the thoughts and action of a child.
Many, many years later I found out the truth. By this time, the Daddy Glow of childhood had worn off and I thought I knew all his ugly side, the drinking, the paranoia, the temper, the verbal abuse, the violence held just below the surface, never actually erupting in my presence, but palpable nevertheless.
I thought I knew it all, until my oldest sister called on my 36th birthday. I think she only meant to do her regular "hey, baby dumpling you're getting old" call, but she has a very poor brain-to-mouth editor. She blurted the whole ugly story of the years of his sexual abuse of our middle sister. And with this, I thought, the last vestige of my love for him was stripped away.
For several years, I refused to talk to him. This wasn't too hard, since he was rarely home when I called. If my mother said he was pulling in the driveway, I said I had to go. On Christmas Eve my family gets together for dinner and gift exchange. Every Xmas Eve I called so I could talk to everyone for a few minutes. I would call on the late side because I knew my father left early and many years didn't even go. So I didn't expect he would be there. Before I had a chance to say I had to go, I heard his voice. I froze. I don't remember the words, but the tone, the feeling behind the words, is carved into my heart. It spoke of fear, trepidation, a request for forgiveness, hurt and confusion. His memory was already failing, but he knew it was his "baby" on the other end of the line. And love - there was love in his voice. I wanted to deny that love. I wanted to say something hurtful. I wanted to ask him why? I wanted to slam the phone down. But I did none of those. He asked me something, I mumbled a yes or no. He asked me something else and I mumbled another response. I was cold and he was hurt.
This was the last conversation I had with him. About 4 years later, I went to visit him in the nursing home. I didn't recognize him. He had lost weight. He had shrunk. He shuffled along in his slippers and robe like most of the other patients in this locked ward. He recognized Mom, but there was only a couple of seconds of recognition for me. After a few minutes of holding her hand, he wandered off. I followed. I stood close to him, but did not touch him. We looked out a window onto a sparsely landscaped patio. Sad plants needing water. Dad loved to garden, he loved to grow vegetables. It was both a response to growing up in the depression, the need for filling your belly and love for taking seeds, nurturing them, guiding them, watering, weeding, worrying about them when the temperature threatened to dip below zero and finally harvesting them. He bitched about the amount of work it took, but the love and pride showed through it all.
As we stood there, I spoke quietly. I asked him questions, leaving no time for answers I knew he no longer remembered. I told him I hated him. I told him I could never forgive him for what he had done. I told him karma is a bitch and she was giving him his due. His expression the entire visit was one of pain. Some of it may have been physical from the arthritis, but I believe, locked inside he was living in his own private hell. He had very little control over his environment. He was "rubbing elbows" with people he considered his inferiors. He couldn't go outside. He was very aware of his ignorance in social situations, so he made a life on his terms as much as possible. He owned and ran his own gas station. Most family events were at our house. We took only one family vacation and I remember only dinning out about 3 times with him in my entire life. He didn't want to look stupid. Now he was in a perpetually confused state. The rules changed moment to moment as his brain refused to hold them steady. Yes, this was hell for my father. As I prepared to leave, I told him I loved him. I hadn't planned on saying it. I thought my love for him was dead. Like the spores that will wait years for the right conditions, my little seed of love, watered by my tears, grew. There would be no pretty flowers, instead I felt a tangled vine containing thorns and soft, green leafs. Painful, but healthy.
I left him by the window, turning only once to look at his sad form silhouetted by the late afternoon sun.
I still hate him. I still love him.
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(Anonymous) 2011-06-08 10:43 am (UTC)(link)no subject
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(Anonymous) 2011-06-08 04:23 am (UTC)(link)lVLaOkPvrVmF
(Anonymous) 2011-06-09 03:26 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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(Anonymous) 2011-06-08 10:04 am (UTC)(link)no subject
I've been pondering how all of the complex feelings I have about my mother are now freed from the glass jar of hope for things to change, no matter how impaired someone is, because they are still taking in breath. and the impact of that glass jar opening is still revealing itself.
that last "I love you" you said to him was for you, not him. it is your truth, in all its complexity.
your writing is beautiful, and the way the story spilled out makes it all the more accessible and vibrant.
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