Father's Day - Better Late than Never

I want to write about my complicated relationship with my Dad as we grew older. He passed away when I was 17 years old. The age difference and time always separated us because he was 56 when I was born. As I matured, he aged. As I became more active, he was less active. As I found new activities and friends in my life, he became more isolated because of his failing health.

I always looked up to my Dad, but I always felt different from the kids whose fathers were much closer in age to their children. I believe the next oldest Dad among my friends was in his early 40s, but my Dad was well into his 60s. I remember playing catch with Dad when I was 5 or 6, but it never happened after that. Dad worked, and then he came home and rested. We seldom did anything unless Mom took charge, and then Dad stayed home.

Children always talk about the teen years when they start to separate from their parents on many levels. I went through that as well, but it was different for me. I always knew that Dad wouldn't be around much longer. A friend of mine lost his Dad in an accident, and I felt a special bond with my friend. His Father was only in his mid-40s, and the loss shattered him because it was so unexpected and sudden and abrupt. It was then that I realized that I was already losing my Dad to the inescapable ravages of age and time. I unexpectedly began mentally preparing myself for Dad's death when I was about 12 years old. Dad was 68, and after he retired, he became more withdrawn. Dad started drinking more than he had, he continued smoking, which eventually killed him, and he was on the verge of what we would call Alzheimer's, although I never heard that term used in 1976.

I went through my teen years with an impending sense of loss about my Dad. Mom became the center point of the family. She was younger than Dad by 17 years, so although she was older than my friends' Moms, she was much more active than Dad was at that time. Dad was a presence, sometimes benevolent, sometimes malignant, in the house, depending on whether he was drinking. Mom tried to get him active and to stop him from drinking, but Dad had his old buddies who would sneak him alcohol when I was at school, and Mom was at work.

Looking back, I wonder how he felt about life and his family. I wonder if his drinking was because he was depressed and sad. After all, he knew that he would not live much longer and had already missed out on so many things, or did he feel that every attempt to help him was some personal attack against him? I'll never know, but I was taught by both Mom and Dad never to look back, so this is the first time I have ever written about this subject.

Eventually, I reached a point of rebellion against Dad. I believe that all the things I missed out on as a young child because of his age and my jealousy when I saw my friends interact with my Dad all came to a boiling point. I criticized Dad for his selfishness and for never trying to do better or take better care of himself. I know I hurt him, but I was letting go of all the hurt that I felt from my younger years. From the time I started school in 1970 until he died, he became less and less involved with me. I felt rejected in many ways, so I lashed out at him.

Dad's health finally failed him in about 1978 when he suffered a stroke at home. The doctors told Mom that in his condition, he would likely never completely recover, and they were right. He steadily deteriorated over the next three years, but he still smoked, and his " irresponsible" buddies still dropped off little bottles of vodka to him while he was home alone. That made me furious; it seemed like the penultimate "fuck you" to Mom and me. We cared for him as much as possible, but he would do things his way until the end. I hate to say this, but I eventually stopped caring. I took his advice and focused on the future; even though Dad was still alive, he was becoming my past.

This post brings up some long-buried and unpleasant memories of my Dad. This is a moment of catharsis because I turned 60 this year. I no longer smoke, and I only have a drink every few months. I made up my mind as a teenager that I would never willingly surrender my life and wait to sit back to die, and I resented him for that. I remember those rare moments when Dad acted like a Dad during the early 1970s, but after that, it was nothing but a slow, steady, self-imposed march to the grave for him.

I became self-reliant at an early age because of my Dad. Looking back, I suppose that was his gift because I saw certain aspects of life that my friends didn't see from their fathers. I am trying to make sense of it now that I am 60. I never held a grudge against my Dad; I lived through the experience of him becoming less of a parent as time went on. I was 17 when he died in 1981. All my friends reacted naturally, at least to them, as if their own much younger Father had passed away unexpectedly. I couldn't explain how it felt to be relieved that he was finally dead because I saw his condition and his lack of effort to help himself, especially in those last three years after his stroke. People thought I was cold and unemotional; I had already lost my Dad years earlier; I just watched the shell slowly fade, become brittle, and finally collapse.

Writing this has been very emotional, but I shed no tears. I learned that lesson many years ago. Whatever happened, he was still my Father, although he messed things up. I wonder if these experiences are why I never got married and never had the slightest desire to be a Father.

Anyway, I feel better after writing this.

Be Kind to one another.