Father's Day Remorse

Recently, a close friend asked me to tell him about my Dad. As I started to share a few of my memories, I found myself crying a cry that was deeper and harder than I would have expected. I thought I had dealt with all my "Dad" stuff, but apparently not. My friend went on to ask, "When is the last time you talked to your Dad?" I don't remember when I last spoke to him on the phone, but I will never forget the last time we saw each other.

During a warm month of 1986 when I was 19 years old, I was in the living room of our house on Elm Street in Spokane, Washington. By "our" house, I mean the home where my Mom, sister and I lived. My parents had been divorced for 13 years and Dad still lived in Moscow, Idaho, which is more than an hour-and-a-half drive from Spokane.

I don't remember what I was doing at the time, but I looked out of the big picture window in the living room and saw Dad drive up and park in front of the house. I thought, "What is he doing here?" It was vastly out of the ordinary for me to see him in Spokane and I don't have any other memories of him visiting the house on Elm Street.

When I saw his car, my heart sank. I didn't want to deal with him. I didn't want to see him or feel the way I felt when I saw him. But I didn't want to hurt him either, so I walked out to his car and put on a friendly face. He said, "Hey kid, how about spending some time with your good ole' Dad?" Outwardly, he was always jovial, but I always had the sense that he was really sad and lonely on the inside.

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time with him. He picked me up from school everyday and I slept at his house at least half of the time. Grandma (his mom) used to tell me how much Dad loved me and that I needed to be good to him and take care of him. But after I moved to Spokane, I saw him less—partly because of the distance, partly because I didn't want to see him. It hurt too much.

Dad was an alcoholic and drank whisky, even for breakfast. I watched his health decline over the years and when he came to visit me that day he was malnourished and emaciated. His cheeks were sunken, all of his bones showed through his skin, his belly was distended, and he could barely walk, every step was stiff and painful from the gout in his feet. I felt so sorry for him. I always knew he was killing himself with the alcohol and I wished he would just die...to put himself out of his misery.

That day in Spokane, he probably offered to take me out for a burger. I think we went for a short drive, but we might have just sat there in the car...the specifics are fuzzy. What I remember clearly is feeling sorry for him and embarrassed that he was my dad. Our house was one block from the school and I didn't want anyone to see me with him. But I also didn't want him to know that I felt that way. I made up an excuse that I had plans with a friend and had to go.

He handed me a potted pink hyacinth that smelled heavenly. I took the flower, walked into the house, and set it on the table by the front window where it would remind me of his visit in the weeks to come. As I watched him drive away, I felt so bad and so guilty, yet so relieved. I know he was disappointed not to spend more time with me. Here, he'd driven almost two hours one way just to see me and I blew him off. A couple of months later, he died while I was in Germany, and I didn't even go to his funeral. In writing this, I realize that I have felt like a terrible person ever since.

Over the years, a lot of people have told me in different ways that I'm terrific, but I haven't felt it. The words "loving" or "kind" never felt true about me. Maybe it's because I felt so awful for the years of making up excuses and avoiding my Dad and for not being there for him on that day in 1986.

Writing this down, though, has given me new perspective. When I step back, my adult eyes and my experience tell me that I was just a normal teenager wanting to fit in. And, of course, it's hard to watch someone self-destruct, especially a parent. But there is nothing that I could have done to save him and, in realizing that, I feel a weight lifted.

I wonder what other weights I might be carrying without noticing. As I uncover and unload them, I'll be sure to share them here. In the meantime, I'd love to hear about your fathers. And to my own, I say...

Dad, Wherever you are, I love you and Happy Father's Day!