Today would have been my father’s 62nd birthday. He passed at the young age of 45, completely unexpectedly if you ask me or my brother. As far as we knew, he was a healthy, strong man who couldn’t succumb to anyone or anything.
In reality, his body was riddled with cancer and tumors, including at least three inoperable tumors on his brain stem. We were never able to confirm if he knew or not. The doctor at the hospital advised us that even with intervention it might have bought him a couple of more weeks at best.
He only went to the hospital because of immense pain caused by a brain aneurysm that had burst. His last words were, “It feels like my head is gonna explode.” Then, it basically did. He only went to the hospital willingly twice in his life. Once when he had a kidney stone and once on the night he died.
As life teaches us, every single one of us will pass on from this life at some point. Some sooner than others. Instead of focusing on death or loss, I’m choosing to take today to remember some of my favorite things about my father.
Anyone who knew us would tell you that we didn’t exactly see eye to eye on several things as I grew up, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other. Sadly, it wasn’t until his death that I fully realized how much he did love me. And I learned to appreciate and respect the fact that he did the very best he was capable of as far as his role as my father.
I was born a few weeks late and my parents thought they were completely prepared for my arrival. He took a month off of work to spend the first few weeks of my life with me, though I didn’t arrive until the day and time he was scheduled to return to work. I told them they should have known how stubborn and late I’d be just based on that.
When he took my mother and I home from the hospital, he stopped by his job to fill out some paperwork. My mother always teased him that he really just wanted to show me off. He also had a large picture of me inside of his work locker, something he never did with anyone else’s pictures.
As a little girl, I was definitely Daddy’s Little Girl. I wanted to always be with him and learn all I could from him. I’d sit in the garage while he worked on cars whenever he’d let me, though he actually wanted my younger brother to do that stuff. He did teach me how to change a tire, brakes, oil, and as a teenager I helped him rebuild the first car I ever bought, a 1970 Chevy Nova.
He coached most of my sports teams when I was little. He taught me how to bowl, which was one of his passions. I’m not very good, but still enjoy it. He was great. He could bowl left- or right-handed and bowled a few perfect games over the course of his life. He was also involved in my soccer and softball teams growing up.
At home, we’d play basketball on the court he built for my brother and I. Or we’d ride our quad or other ATVs together. Every summer we’d go to the lake and camp for at least a long weekend. I remember those trips well, as sitting around the fire eating and playing board games is one of my fondest childhood memories.
I believe my love of motorcycles and other adrenaline-inducing passions come from him. Although he enjoyed those things, he was extremely cautious and rarely took risks. He dreamed of opening his own shop or trying to go pro as a bowler, but never left the “sure thing” paycheck his job brought him.
He used to take me with him around the block on his motorcycle when I was really young, until his accident. He came very close to death and underwent a lot to recover. My mother wouldn’t let him take me with him on the bike after that. She said I’d sit in front of the window and cry every time he rode off because I wanted to go with him.
He took us to an amusement park and forced us to ride the fastest roller coaster there, which went upside down, before we could do anything else. I was terrified and didn’t want to go. He said if we didn’t ride it we had to go home. When I got off of the coaster, I asked to do it again. He laughed. He later explained that you have to try things at least once in life. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. But at least try it.
My father was a funny man. He made everyone around him laugh when he was in a joking mood. He also commanded respect. He was hard on me, always pushing me to be my best. His philosophy was that if you’re going to do something, be the best at it. He taught me responsibility, pride, and integrity.
Something changed when I turned eleven. I was “blessed” on that day with my cycle, and that seemed to instantly change our relationship. He became distant, and I acted out. Our family went through a lot between illnesses, deaths, and drama with their families that put them in the middle. (My father’s father married my mother’s sister, then they had a messy divorce.)
Throughout my teens there were times that we hardly ever spoke at all, sometimes going months between a single word being exchanged even though we lived in the same house until I was seventeen. I hated him and blamed him for a lot during that time. I even wished and prayed that he’d just die more than once. Guilt for that consumed me when his final day came.
Once I was out on my own with a family of my own, we’d occasionally talk about life and different things, though not often. I was typically defensive when we spoke because I always felt like I wasn’t good enough for him and like he didn’t love me. The epitome of daddy issues, I suppose.
Over the last couple of months of his life, we started having longer, more meaningful conversations that went far beyond the typical short calls we exchanged on holidays and birthdays. I started to understand where he was coming from with a lot of the things he said and did. I still don’t necessarily agree with a lot of those things, but I can understand and respect his point of view.
A month before he passed, he visited my city for a bowling tournament. I met him at the hotel he was staying at for dinner. He interacted with my children in a way I had never seen, as he was not close to them at all and hadn’t spent hardly any time around them. He hugged me and told me he loved me for the first time in seven years. That was the last time I saw him truly alive. I don’t really count the moments I spent next to a hospital bed when his physical shell was breathing by way of machines. He wasn’t there.
Now, I understand that everything he did and said was because that was what he felt was right in that moment, with the tools and knowledge that he had. I learned more about the trauma he had endured in his youth and empathized with him. He didn’t share too often, and certainly not as an excuse. He never made excuses.
Most of what I learned from his friends and family after his death shed more light on why he was the way that he was. I was able to understand his point of view and entertain different intentions than what I had been holding onto.
My father was far from perfect. But he was a hardworking man who took his responsibilities seriously. He would have done anything in his power to provide for us and keep us safe. In the moments he was unable to do that, he felt like he failed and didn’t know how to face us, or himself. I didn’t see that before. I thought he was lashing out at me. In reality, he was struggling with himself.
I walked into his house at the age of twenty-four for the first time in seven years. The very first thing you’d see when you walked through the door was my picture. He looked at that picture every day. In his top desk drawer, on top of everything else, was a picture of my family. The whole time I thought he hated me, he was seeing me – daily. He just didn’t know how to communicate with me, or forgive himself for his shortcomings.
With my current beliefs, I am grateful for the twenty-four years I had with him on this earth. I am elated that I got to know him and learn from him. I hope to do better in my life, because of what he was able to teach me, directly or indirectly. I hope that I am a better person because of those lessons.
I’ve looked at his death as a way to learn how to forgive someone who never apologized, how to learn to see things from a different perspective, how to be grateful for what I had rather than focus on what I didn’t, and how to truly be okay with something far beyond my control. I learned a lot about forgiveness during this journey, in the way of forgiving my father and myself. I also learned to see him for who he was instead of who I painted him out to be or wished he was.
In addition, I took it as a lesson to treat others in the way that I’d want them to remember me. To concentrate on being satisfied with the last conversation I had with anyone in my life if either of us should pass before we get to speak again. This is my constant lesson and aspiration.
In closing, I’d like to invite you to call someone you love today just to see how they’re doing and tell them you love them. Call a few people. You never know when that reminder could truly change someone’s day, or even their life.
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