750 words on grief, forgiveness and my father.

I was organizing my bookshelves today and I instinctively pulled out Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. The first line of the book reads, “Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends. The question of self-pity.” How succinct. How perfect. Didion’s cool detachment after witnessing the death of her husband is overwhelmingly emotional yet distant and observational. Life does indeed change in the instant. I’ve had two deaths in my life that happened so quickly and they changed my life. I understand Didion’s detachment from the actual event because it’s how I felt. When I was told my father had died, I was preparing to go out to a bar. I told my friends, took a shot and went dancing. As I stood in the hospital room watching the doctors unplug and take my friend off life support, I left. I went outside and smoked. It was all too much. Everyone around me handled those situations differently, but both deaths had a permanent and lasting effect on me. 

My fathers death was not particularly surprising. He had spent years abusing drugs and alcohol. His liver simply stopped working. The acidity from his own blood burned his esophagus when his body could not break down the toxins. His esophagus was wrapped and he was told that he needed to stay sober for six months to get on the transplant list. He lasted less than a year. At that time we had no relati ship of any kind. The last time we spoke he gave me what every child of an alcoholic knows was an empty apology. I know he was trying but I could tell he was apologizing for something he did not remember doing. He was so far into drugs that his could not entirely own his actions. I was too young and too hurt to understand how addiction works and I refused his apology. From his point of view, how could he feel remorse for something that he would have never done sober? I wish now that I had said I forgive him. It wouldn’t have changed anything, our relationship was so strained that there was no way back. However I could have offered a little grace. He was in so much emotional pain and regret and he was reaching out for some small amount of clemency, but I couldn’t give it to him. 

After he died I noticed people’s attitudes shifted about him. He was described as a little saintlier, and all that people remembered was the positive. His humor, his ability to fill the room and make you feel like the most important person alive were mentioned. I did not want any of that. When my mom talked about him being out  of pain and in heaven I remarked, “he’s in hell’. We all grieve differently and my grief was anger. At that point, I really hated him. I hated him more dead than alive because he left me with all this pain and fear and now everyone was acting like he deserved a tearful eulogy. I spent many years feeling that anger but at some unknown point I let that go. I started to see him as the deeply flawed, loving human being he was. I started thinking about the way he grew up. From what he told me it was a house of abuse and alcoholism. I thought about what it must have been like growing up in that household. He was terribly sensitive and grew up constantly being told that this was not ‘manly’. His open heart is perhaps what led to his addictions. It was his only way of dealing with the world. He’d make a mistake and drink to forget. But that just led to more mistakes. 

At some point I had to find the middle ground. Hating him took too much energy but I couldn’t pretend that he was perfect. I instead focused on the good things he did for me. Perhaps instinctively knowing I would need this skill, he taught me how to fight back and helped me fine tone my quick wit. I remember that my father never made me feel bad for being sensitive. He practically encouraged it- supporting me to be creative and act in plays. In some way he was correcting what his parents had done to him. I think every parent wants better for their children. I have always favored my mother in temperament, but as I get older I see parts of my dads personality creep in. When this happens I say hi to him as if he’s there, proud of me. Like he always was.