I was an oops baby. Even more concerning, I was an oops baby during a rough patch. My parents, bless their hearts, their marriage was in trouble and there was no sense in bringing another child into it. But they decided to be brave. They relocated from Maryland back to their hometown of San Diego where they would be closer to family and truly “settle” down. They were getting older, after all, and so were the two kids they already had.
Dad stopped having to travel so much for his job. As a result he was incredibly present in my early life. He doted on me and all my interests, however trivial or fleeting. I wanted to be an artist, so he’d set me up with a chalkboard easel in the kitchen. He took me out on workdays on construction and irrigation projects. I’d be his little shadow traipsing in the dirt and grass. All my jokes were funny and all my thoughts were worth considering. If Mom said no, Dad was the sympathetic lobbyist I’d turn to for reconsideration.
For most of my early childhood our family lived in a cozy duplex with three bedrooms and absolutely no yard; he made it a point to take me to my grandma’s community pool, or even more scandalously, steal us into the one at the nearby golf club & resort. Even though we risked being caught trespassing, I can’t remember ever feeling scared or skittish, so long as he was there. I was too busy having fun.
Some of my happiest childhood memories were ones he made happen; when I think of the sunniest days, the most harmonious times, he’s always front-and-center. There he stayed as everything broke down.
My siblings and I make up the quintessential “eldest, middle, baby” collection. In the past we bristled against each other over the contrasting experiences we had with him. For as present as he was in my early years, he was gone on work trips during theirs. They were right — I had it good. They got the “wild vacation adventures” Dad and the “don’t tell mom” Dad, but I got the “field trip chaperone,” “make my breakfast every morning” Dad, the “Dad in the audience for every school recital.” But the kid that’s there for everything is the kid that’s there for everything. None of us were unscathed. Yet it took me years to validate the truth that it was uniquely damaging for me because I was still a child when my dad’s issues began eclipsing everything good he did and was. A strong and stubborn wife, loving kids, a supportive family — these gifts couldn’t save him from himself.
I was too young to articulate the frustration. He held so much power over our lives: our livelihood, our housing, our access to so many resources. My Mom, disabled and unable to work full-time, tried desperately to have common sense win against his ego. Their relationship was drenched with bitterness. I frequently woke up to their yelling over the same set of issues: money, work, bills, family. Keep in mind, at that point we were all cramped into my grandma’s mobile home.
I spent my teenage years oscillating between anger and pity as Dad became a tragic figure whose downfall I sat front row for. I couldn’t understand why he took every opportunity to destroy the good things he had that neither wealth nor poverty could supplant: love, loyalty, care. He cut corners, manipulated, deceived, and he hurt the ones he professed to love. He carried an immense amount of pain with him that eventually turned to resentment about how it all turned out. His shoulders carried patriarchal pressures to provide, yes, but also an expectation to be validated as the provider. When it became clear that, though we all loved him, that we would never again see him as that unbreakable pillar of strength in our lives, I think something in him broke beyond remedy.
We moved on and formed new architecture for our futures. We tried our best to heal ourselves and accept him for who he was. The trouble was his version of himself, and ours as we knew him, told vastly different stories.
It has been eighteen days since my Dad died. He held on just enough for his last birthday — his 68th — the day before. Ever since then we have been in an season of revelation. He was sicker than we knew. He was more vulnerable that he ever admitted. We warned him for years to take better care of himself. Living in rural Texas in a trailer park, alone, with no kin nearby? Pretty much the opposite of that. But in the end my Dad wanted the freedom to destroy himself on his own terms. It was him, his little old dog, the many neighborhood cats he’d feed, and that damn trailer. Oh, and a half-gallon of vodka at the ready.
Just weeks prior to his death I was telling a friend losing my parents before I’ve crossed off all the life milestones has haunted me for years. There’s this chip on my shoulder about not having the time — not enough time, anyway — to do all the things I want and give them what is expected. With Dad gone I am standing squarely in the middle of that outcome. He will never see me get engaged, married, or buy my first home. He will never meet my kids. He will never be someone I care for in his elder years. If he had anything left to teach me I’ll never know. Then again I have been released from the obligation of having to do those things to indirectly redeem a man who has done nothing to deserve that harvest. Around me is a wreckage of what he’s left behind and I don’t have the stomach to search for useful scraps. All I know is I have another wound cut through my core that I’ve yet to face, made by a man who’ll never change his ways.
It’s a marvel, isn’t it, when the person who made you is nothing like you? When you grow up and have empty hands because they couldn’t save what they promised to give you? I’m not talking about money or prestige. I’m talking about the safety, the love, care, loyalty, trust, belonging. When the time comes and there’s no gift, and the person you grew up admiring shows their true selves, what do you grieve? Do you grieve them, the person you thought they were but now can never know if it was accurate? Do you grieve the circumstances that left you with this hurt? Do you grieve not having a choice in the matter? How much of someone’s betrayal can one body sustain, and why is it never theirs that are stricken with its weight?
I love my Dad. Losing him is, truly, a loss. I miss his whimsy and the joy he exuded. I mourn the parts of him that took refuge in me as he destroyed himself. I, and my siblings, are evidences of a man long gone. My desire for orderliness and efficiency. My ability to systematize tasks and work. My silliness that comes out when I’m finally used to you. My clumsy laughter. They are all traces of someone who couldn’t see all that he was sacrificing. They are gifts wasted on him. It makes me sad because I know deep down he wouldn’t have wanted this. It frustrates me knowing that he likely wouldn’t have made the choices necessary to avoid it.
I hope wherever he is, he knows that I genuinely love(d) him. I also hope that, in his next incarnation, he finds the strength to do things differently and atone for all this. In the mean time he lives on in people that have superseded his mistakes: Me, my siblings, my Mom. His damage did not do us in, did not stop us from reaching for lives full of happiness, love, and fulfillment. If that is to be his legacy, however complicated and ambivalent, so be it. Sometimes the highest honor to give for someone’s memory is this: that goodness endured in spite of them.