you may now listen to this chapter on here: father son and father gone
Poking his sister in the head and pulling her hair were natural acts for my 12-yo son. And today at my Father’s Day brunch, things were no different. Except when my mom asked each kid to tell one thing they liked about their dad. I was supposed to tell them something I liked about “being” their dad. And my mom was going to tell us what she liked about watching me be a dad.
A simple Father’s Day request, over brunch. My mom set up the question, and my daughter went first, “I like how my dad is always positive and supportive of us. And that he’s not like our cousin’s dad.”
Ah yes, easy to be a great dad when contrasted with a devil dad.
My mom went next. “I love seeing how you support and love your children in everything they do. And how much they know you love them.”
Okay. All good there.
So I went next, as we were going around the table like a card game.
“I love how each of my kids are excelling in their creative pursuits, both musical and non-musical. I am amazed by how creative each of you are.”
And with that, my son, who had taken extra time to come up with his appreciation, slumped into a tearful silence. He couldn’t go next.
Mom got uncomfortable and tried to ease off him and change the subject. I asked that we just give him time to recover and formulate his thoughts. It was okay for him to be feeling some emotion. My mom gave me a worried look. He was fine. I did wonder what he was feeling so deeply. Was it connected to what I said?
He took some time. The rest of us moved on and talked about various things. But I came back to him when he seemed to have regained composure. “Not to completely let you off the hook,” I said. “Surely you can think of one good thing to say about me.” We smiled at each other. He was back.
He spoke clearly, “I like it when you try to help, even on things that you can’t help with. You still try.”
“Anything specific, right now, that I’m not helping on?” I smiled big at him, letting him know I was open for anything, but also teasing a little about anything I might be missing.
“No,” he said. “Nothing comes to mind.”
It’s hours later, and the kids are back at their mom’s house and I’m still trying to decipher what he was trying to say. Of course, my interpretation is only mine. I will have to wait until Thursday, when they are back with me, to see if I can gain any insight. More than likely, the m oment had passed and we’d never revisit his moment.
What would’ve made me sad at his age? I only have my frame of reference.
- Sad that he’s not able to be with me all the time, or that we are separated so much of the time.
- Expressing his understanding that the divorce was not my idea and that I tried to keep it from happening.
- Sad that the rest of his life isn’t as positive when I’m not around.
I don’t know. I was making these up after I dropped them at their mom’s house.
My son is a bit on the quiet side when it comes to talking about emotions. (Duh, he’s twelve.) But in tender moments I try and stay in the moment and remain open, receptive, and listening. My instinct is to dig into this moment with him and see if I can get at any of *his* sadness and help him make sense of it. We won’t get there, but it’s what I would like to do. Hold him. Tell him everything is going to be okay. I was going to have to wait until Thursday to see him again and by then, water under the bridge, probably a pass.
In my parent’s divorce, my dad exited in a big way. He went even further into his disease and married another alcoholic. They drank themselves to death. His exit and rapid descent from our family were devastating for me. A new wife with a daughter, three years younger than me. It made no sense that she got to be with my dad more than I did.
Then again, she was trapped in that house of yelling and slurred affection. I never envied her. Even when she got her mom’s half of the money and her one-fifth of the kid’s money. She knew a hell that nearly took me out the first time I experienced it during Spring Break from prep school in Maine. I’d skipped coming back to Texas the year before and he’d had a heart attack. I was going to make it right this year. Top of stairs leading down into the inferno.
When the cancer treatments forcibly sobered up my dad, and he was dying, I finally got a chance to say to him how much I loved him. And he was able to hear me. A few months before his final trip to the hospital, he was living at a golf resort about an hour from town. I spent the weekend with him. We watched TV, played cards, and had a few meals together. Nothing much. I was leaving to go back to town on Sunday morning, he said, “We haven’t gotten to do this much. And I want to do it more.”
“Yes, Dad. I’d love to be with you as much as I can.”
His last entry into the hospital came only a few weeks later. We never had a rematch in Gin Rummy. He lost consciousness after about 48 hours in intensive care. He hung on for a week. It was merely time for us to sit beside his bed, cry, and hold his limp hand as the machines hissed and beeped life into him.
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