I am not always a good friend, a good husband, a good father, or a good son. In general I try stick by my ideals, but as I get older, I find myself more and more often living in the gray areas between. It hasn't always been this way.
When I was younger I was fiercely loyal; I sought to be just in thought and action; I had a high moral standard. I knew what was right, and more importantly, I recognized wrong, especially in matters of family, friendship and love.
Or so I thought.
I took great pride in being right, ocasionally at the cost of hurting or even losing people important to me. I realize now that I am older that being right isn't always the most important thing. Especially concerning the people I love.
It is no secret that I have never thought highly of my father. I could list all his shortcomings as a parent, all the ways he failed me, the instances where the choices he made came at the sacrifice of his children. I have been, to varying degrees, angry at him for most of my life.
It's been 12 days since his stroke, and 10 since he took his last breath. I don't know if I am handling things well, or if I am not. I feel ok about things at the moment, but that may change.
What I have come to accept, though, is that I didn't really know my father, and that I think I probably would have liked him had I had the opportunity and the circumstances of our relationship had been different.
I am not suddenly stricken with a whole new view of my dad now that he is gone. I am not romanticizing him; all I'm saying is that I wish things had been different between us, but it just wasn't possible; it didn't happen, and it it probably couldn't have been any different.
However, I know he wished the same, and right now, that's enough.
I've seen enough of my own imperfections and the havoc my choices have caused people I've loved in my life, to know that it's not always possible to undo the damage we cause, even though we'd love nothing more than to be able to do so. Though it wasn't always evident to me, I think my dad felt much the same, and it is comforting to know that he saw, and he wished.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
I often contemplate such things. The year or two it takes to build a sky scraper, the many actions, the care, the effort and planning... the few seconds it takes to blow it apart; the years and years it took to build Rome, and only one week to demolish it forever.
Some things can't be fixed. Sometimes they can't even be made better.
I don't have a very high opinion of my father. It's not likely to change. I am no longer angry with him in that deep sort of way. But, I am not close to him and doubt that I ever will be. I'm certain he would change it if he could. He can't. He has finally accepted that we aren't going to have a relationship as if he'd been there all along. It was hard for him. But honestly, how could we? Really? I "met" him when I was 21. My childhood was over; I had been through school and I was married. He was a stranger, and outsider. He was my father, but not my daddy.
Mom was more complicated. She was there. She fucked up a lot. I don't make a saint of her just because she is dead. And in her death, her absence, I have been able to be more honest and come to terms with much more than if she were living. I can't say it's been pleasant, but it has been useful. Despite her many flaws and their cost to me, I miss her. I find myself wishing I could share certain things with her of the few things we could actually enjoy together. Sometimes my mom tried, genuinely tried, knew she was wrong, felt wrong, and reached out just because she didn't want the distance between us. Those moments were rare. She never apologized, ever. At best, she would come up with a gesture. I can count those moments on one hand. I am certain she knew she was wrong a lot more than she let on.
She never told me she loved me. I remember the last time I told her I loved her... I was 10 years old... she didn't say anything, change anything, nothing, no response or acknowledgment. I thought she didn't hear me, so I repeated it. Nothing. I told her, "Mom, I said I love you. Did you hear me?" She yelled at me, "Yes, I heard you. For God's sake I'm right here. What the hell's wrong with you?" That was all she said. I was wounded to say the least. I vowed never to tell her that again. And, I kept it, until she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Then, it just didn't matter any more.
The last thing I said to her was the on the phone the afternoon of the night she died. I said, "I love you." No reply. Not because she didn't want to reply, but because when a person is dying, it takes a while for things to register. I repeated, "Mom, I love you" because I wanted to make sure she heard me. She yelled, "I heard you. It just takes a while for me to understand. I love you too."
I'm glad those were my last words to her. And, I am especially glad that I know for a fact, she heard me.
I have read this about 10 times now. Every time I think I want to comment, I stop myself. Nothing I can say would augment your words in any way. They are perfect.
Love ya, hippie.
I've wanted to comment on this post since you first wrote it, but I can't think of anything at all to add or any comment that would do it justice.
Post a Comment