Grief for My Father

 So, my father died two weeks ago.

I haven't really told anyone at work who didn't already know him, and a few people who did have come to me to express their condolences. But the reason I avoid talking about it isn't what I think people expect, which is mainly why I avoid talking about it.

How do I tell people that I wasn't close with my father, and that even saying that is an understatement? How do I tell people who are genuinely concerned for my emotional state that my biggest concern in Dad's passing is what I'm going to say at the memorial, if I choose to speak at all. How will people hear me saying that I can't remember one actual, meaningful activity with my father? That I couldn't tell you what hobbies or pursuits he was into, other than watching old cowboy shows and spending money on cowboy boots and cowboy hats so he could look like the guys in the cowboy shows?

How do I tell people that my father consistently made decisions that not only kept his children at a distance, but traumatically harmed them as well? 

If you looked up the word neglect in the dictionary, you wouldn't find a picture of my father there, because we didn't take pictures and if we did, he wouldn't be doing much. His world was very insular, a lonely little planet with not much vegetation and even less beauty. I hear other people talk about their father's absence, and blaming it on other pursuits. Their dad wasn't around for them because he was focused on making money, or following some sport or another, or always with his dudes off doing dude stuff. Not to diminish their experience, but I wish I could say that. I wish I could stand up at the memorial and say, "My father wasn't around for us kids, but look at all the money he made." Or maybe "I didn't know my dad very well at all, but he sure loved the Heat." Even if I could say, "My dad was kind of a mystery to us at home, but look at all these die-hard friendships he built." I don't know a single friend he had. My mom has friends, and I can even name a handful of them. I can't even name all my dad's siblings, because he never bothered much to make them a part of our lives either.

And the worst part about it is that I'm constantly on guard for those same qualities in myself. I'm a writer. Not for nothing, but I do enjoy my solitude. I like my own company, and the company of fictional people. But I have to remember to touch grass, to open the gates of the pillow fort and let the wife and kids come in to play too. At least my kids would be able to name a bunch of things their father enjoyed doing, things he was passionate about - writing, exercise, video games, Spider-Man. Plus I try to get involved in the things they like as well. Bluey is a darn fine show, and Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir is a top flight superhero show and I will die on that hill with a red and black-polka-dotted flag in both hands. 

A student asked me the other day what my favorite car is, and I really don't have one. I don't put a lot of thought into those things. So, then it was my favorite possession. I couldn't really name something that I couldn't live without or couldn't replace if I lost. I just don't like spending a lot of money on things - possibly another thing I got from my folks. But these vacations, I love spending money on vacations. I love having adventures with my family, whether that means theme parks and rides, or camping and outdoors, or finding new places to play and explore in the neighborhood. I want my children to have exactly the opposite problem at my memorial than I'm having with my father. Instead of having a difficult time remembering one fun or meaningful memory with their dad, I want them to worry about narrowing down the list of hundreds. I want them to have to sort out all the pictures, even though I hate taking them. I want them to have arguments about which trips were the best, or which pranks and jokes were the funniest, or which routines were most personal to them.

So it's not that I'm not grieving. I'm not sad, that's for sure, at least no sadder than I was before. I'm not regretful, because we did our best to take care of Dad in his last years, out of compassion, honor, and concern for his dignity. Honestly, my sister did the majority of the heavy lifting there, and his last days were as comfortable as possible. His body had grown weaker, and the Alzheimer's had robbed him of some of his memories, but that last year in the home passed like most of the years before it - Dad sitting in his chair, watching his shows, asking for his food when he got hungry, and generally choosing not to interact with the people around him, even when we came to visit. It's hard to grieve when there was no connection for death to sever, but if I'm grieving, it's because I'm lamenting the father that I could have had, the stories I could have told about him, the community I could have seen impacted by his presence and saddened by his passing.

And I'm grieving the paternal skills that I never got. I started my parenting journey with exactly zero tools in my toolbox. My oldest kids are very aware that they had a different, and, shall we say, less skilled father than the littles have now. One by one, I've had to add parenting tools to my collection, and most of them are tools I didn't know I needed until I broke something or messed something up and had to repair it. My family is odd, four kids with a 22 year difference between the oldest and youngest, grand-kids the same age as their auntie. There was a time when I said I was done with having kids, that I would be 45 and free, finished with parenting and ready to move on to the next phase. Now I realize that sounded a lot like my father talking. So, while they were surprises, I'm glad for every extra chance I've gotten to be a father, and grandfather, too, to build those relationships that my father never bothered to build.