For most gi
rls, their first love is their dad. It was true for me. I remember when I used to be daddy's girl. It was daddy that I wanted to come downstairs and tuck me in at night. Daddy I wanted to show all of my silly drawings, and read all of my stories to. It was daddy who would toss me up to the sky and catch me while I giggled wildly. I curled up with daddy on the couch with to watch cartoons, with his big arms wrapped around me keeping me safe and warm. In grade 3 when I got 2 fingers caught in the fire doors at school, it was daddy that I screamed blue murder for the nurse to call to come and get me. He was this great big man with a giant laugh, happy smile, and endless energy... at least for the time that I was of the age to be in bed by 7 o’clock.Of course, a daughter's hero-worship of her father eventually has to come to and end. As I got older I noticed other things. I remember falling to sleep listening to my parents yelling and screaming at one another in a fight, almost always about money. Dad yelling, saying horrible mean things to my mom, Mom screaming and crying. Their fights got physical, at least on dad's end. I have a memory of waking up hearing my parents fighting one night when I had to have been about 4, creeping upstairs and falling asleep on the landing, just out of sight of the living room where they were fighting. I don't know what they would have thought as they carried me back down to my bed later, but it turned out that he was no hero.
Dad drank, and he was abusive when he drank. He was impatient at all times, and had an incredibly low tolerance for his kids. I worked hard to stay off his radar. I always used my manners; I was an A+ student, never in trouble at school or otherwise. He loved picking on my little brother and my mother, whether or not there was a reason. I was his darling, and he didn't seem to focus his horribleness on me until I was about in sixth grade. I don't remember what I did to set him off, but one weekend afternoon when he had been drinking he slapped me hard across the face. I remember my feelings of shock, anger, disappointment, and embarrassment, my face stinging, as my mother and brother looked on. My kneejerk reaction was to scream and shove him, and he happened to be standing at the top of a half-flight of stairs. He didn't ever hit me again, but that was the end of daddy's little girl.
Dad died in the Fall of ’07 from a combination of pancreatic and liver cancer, a prize that came about after his years of alcohol abuse. I abandoned S and our plans for travel and exploration, and returned to Canada August 21st because the doctor said he only had 6-8 weeks to live - turned out he had 4. We didn’t really talk, other than the random chit-chat that strangers make. We were civil, strangers, visiting one another, listening to the birds, sitting in the early morning sun on the deck. I was there for my mom, not for him I guess – it felt weird. I cooked meals for them until he was hospitalized, set up his medications, helped him get to/from the bathroom, picked him up and cleaned him off when he fell, helped him have his baths, got the details of what he wanted for his funeral/service etc., the kind of things a caring daughter would do. I did them out of obligation, not out of love. With the state mom was in, and my brother's denial of any problems, I was the only one there who would be able to help, so I helped. I did the same at the hospital, took on half of the nursing duties, taking shifts at his bedside overnight so my mom and brother could go home and sleep. It was odd being there while he died. I felt detached, separate, and clinical. I didn't cry when he finally let go.
Since he died I continue to have mixed feelings. Mostly when I do think about it, I ricochet back and forth between indifference and anger, between “I don’t really care,” and “fuck, he was such an asshole!” Some moments I forget that it even happened, and it comes back to me without emotional attachment; it’s just a fact, an event that happened in my life. Other moments I’m mad that he was such a mean, spiteful, selfish man. I don’t miss him, though I do have regrets. I don’t have regrets for how I behaved in our relationship – I was the one who had to act like an adult all the time; I regret the kind of person he insisted on being with me, when he was someone so totally different with his friends. I’m mad that I didn’t get to have the kind of relationship I would have liked with my father. I get angry that he refused to accept me for who I am – doesn’t a daughter deserve that from her father? I’m angry that he was judgmental and closed-minded toward me and the choices I made in life – this from a man who was an abusive alcoholic when home with his family!
If I could have had anything, I wish I could have had more of that magical time back from when my Dad was my hero. I wish that as an adult I could have known the man his friends got to know - the open, caring, funny, loving, generous, kind, thoughtful , positive, helpful, energetic and fun one. I wish he had shared that side of himself with me, and I wonder frequently why I never got to share in that part of him, why he never acted that part with me.
If you take anything away from this history revisited, please take this... While you’re out there living your life, share your best with everyone, even the people who love you because they "have to". Be your shining and glorious self with everyone. Whether you know it or not, they will be glad, and they will be better people because of it. Happy birthday, dad.
