It’s rather strange really, this pain I feel inside. Most of the time, it’s dull and pulsing like my heart. I think that possibly, my heartbeat masks it. When I was a small child, I longed for him. He always promised me he would come and save me. The line I remember most is, “If you just think of me, I’ll know, and I’ll be there”. I often did, and he never was.
He and my mother split up when I was 2. I don’t remember anything about it, actually, I only have a tiny handful of memories from before age 5. And then, it’s shotty until at least 9. Therapists have told me that is common with emotional trauma. Yep…that’s right. I’m “common”.
I probably only saw him a handful of times when I was small. He was my hero, but he was rather mean and unavailable. I didn’t understand, I was a kid. He was really unhappy, and had a lot of responsibilities. Plus, my mother made it hard for him to see me, and his wife hated me…it was a bad mix. For what it’s worth, she really did hate me. She told me so several times, and even confirmed it later, as an adult.
When I was 10, I went to live with him. I was SO excited, and it was almost magical. His wife started to bash me…and it all went sour quickly. The day she decided she’d had enough, she made me call my mother, and tell her that she hated me, I hated her, and that my father was bringing me home. And he did. He didn’t stand up to her, and he chose her and my sisters over me. After that, I didn’t talk to him for 5 years. He never called, and I would occasionally mail or drop off small gifts for my sisters, but found out later that his wife had burned/destroyed/got rid of them.
Out of nowhere, he called in January…right before my birthday. But, it wasn’t to wish me Happy Birthday, it was to tell me my grandmother was in the hospital. She was my world. I made my mother take me to see her, and coincidentally, as we were leaving, he was walking in. He was there, with his wife, and my two sisters. It was the first time I’d seen my little sister since she was born.
After that, we stayed in touch a little bit. Here and there, but nothing major. I invited him to my high school graduation, and maintained that if he didn’t show up, I would cut ties forever. After I walked the stage, there he was. I cried. It is one of 2 pictures I have of my mother, father, and me.
We talked more after that, even took a vacation together. I felt like I was finally getting the father I’d wanted. But he was now so miserable w/ his wife that he was an alcoholic. It got worse, and worse, until he actually yelled at me for hiding my sister (which I was NOT doing). I told him he was not allowed to treat me that way, and hung up on him. I didn’t talk to him that time for about…4 years. His drinking got worse, and he ended up in the hospital. My sister called me once, told me that he was dying, liver disease. I told her that he had gotten himself into that position, and he would have to figure out how to get himself out.
When I met Jess, I told her she’d never meet my father. She always encouraged me, but I never wanted to. Then, in 2004, my grandfather had a “mandatory meeting” at his house, and I saw him again. He was ill, moved slow, and much less…well…”alive” than he had been when I was younger. He followed me around like a puppy. My sisters were there too.
We started off small, bit by bit. He’d tell me he’d call, and I’d discount it. But then the phone would ring. We went on like this for a while, and then the more we talked, the more we mended. He was the first person I called when I got a positive pregnancy test. He was the one who was there he was born. Every day we spoke. Every day. We talked about life, ourselves, what was going on. We talked about the past, we talked about the wrongs. And, he apologized. Even for the things he didn’t remember doing.
He was there for every event, every birthday, party, dinner, etc., that year. Every one. We talked every day, and he was always there. I relied on him, and he was there. He had never been there, but now he was. He stayed sober, and got more healthy. UC Davis actually bumped him down the transplant list several times.
He came to D’s blessing, on October 8th. He seemed less healthy than usual, but nothing major. He hugged me, and went home a little early, wanted to rest. I remember him taking a nap that day. At 4 a.m., Monday morning, my step-mom called. Crying. And I knew, I so knew something was wrong. Off. He had gone to the hospital by ambulance. Bleeding out.
We got there quickly, there isn’t much traffic at 4 a.m. He was okay though. He saw doctors, we talked to them…everyone agreed that it wasn’t great, but wasn’t life threatening. Then, after a few days of ups and downs, he got worse. Moved hospitals and everything. He slipped into an unconscious state, I don’t know if it was a coma. He was in immense pain, and they weren’t giving him anything. I knew he had to be set free. I knew it so clearly.
We did, and he went free. He was finally out of suffering. But in that moment, the suffering began again for me that day. For the most part, I pretend it hasn’t ever happened. I call him, but his wife answers. That is okay, because she is my mom. I love her, and know so certainly that part of this all was a healing there too. But it hurts my heart. I want him to answer. I want to hear his voice. I want to hear him.
I miss him. Terribly. I love him, loved him.
The pain is slow and dense, and severe and acute. It’s rough, and some days, it’s nothing. I let it be nothing because it hurts less that way.
Days like today, though…oh, these are the worst.
