Saying Goodbye Again (and Again)
From ages zero to 12, my father and I were inseparable. He was my strongest ally; my steadfast cheerleader, constantly championing me in all my pursuits. Up to that point, my dad had been battling alcohol addiction, and my mom had been fighting for our family to remain intact. In 6th grade, my father began an affair with my best friend’s mom — while my parents were still married.
My parents divorce was messy, prolonged, and involved me essentially testifying against my father. I could no longer lie to mom about the hidden bottles and cans in his desk at work. I could no longer lie to my siblings about the contraceptives I found in his car. I could no longer lie to myself about what our relationship was. Yes, we were best friends (he once told one of my sisters she was the prettiest but I was his favorite, which sucks for us both to hear, but imagine being my brother or my eldest sister, neither of which were crowned the prettiest or the favorite! That was a joke, please laugh). And although he loved me as much as any father loves their child, ultimately, I was a conduit for his addiction. He could drink before he drove me to soccer, as long as I got there by 6:15..no one would know he think he was drinking, his daughter was with him in the car, after all. And, when he needed someone to blow into the court-ordered breathalyzer that started the car engine, I was more than happy to lend that to him.
But, there was a lot of good there, too. We watched football, soccer, and basketball as we ate dinner together in my parents’ gigantic bed — just the two of us. He’d throw me deep passes across the living room, where I’d fall into the couch and make diving OBJ-style catches. We’d talk about history, politics and Kurt Warner. He’d cry and tell me all about his abusive father who left him when he was eight-years-old. And, he’d cry some more as he told me about how his stepfather came in and changed his life. I always told people my dad could be anything he wanted— a famous boxer, a Nascar driver, a stand-up comedian, a brilliant engineer, you name it.
Our relationship ceased when I was about 15 or so, because I finally grew tired of him falling asleep at the table when we were out to dinner. Now, as a 29-year-old, I find myself filled with overwhelming rage and sorrow looking back at who he was, who he could have been, and what we could have been together — as a father and daughter.
A man who, formerly had a very successful business, four healthy kids and a devoted wife (well, two), is quite literally drinking himself to death. He’s been in and out of the ICU more times than I can count, and every time I have to prepare myself to say goodbye to him again. His liver is nonexistent, he can only eat and drink thanks to an esophageal stent procedure, and he falls down and can’t get up for several days at a time. At this point, it feels like I’ve prepared for him to die about 1000 times. And for some reason, each time, it gets a little harder.
It’s a very bizarre feeling to lose a parent you no longer have a real relationship with; knowing how to act is the weirdest part. On one hand, I have healed from the loss of my past life — a life with a loving, unbroken family. But on the other hand, I have been tending to the dull ache of a long drawn out grieving process that will soon end in the death of my former hero.
My father is currently in the ICU with pneumonia, experiencing congestive heart failure, and my first instinct was to write about it. I’m not sure why. I don’t know what I get out of sharing this part of my life with the internet. Maybe because being honest with semi-faceless strangers on the internet is easier than being vulnerable with people that are close to me. Maybe it’s because I am an uninteresting woman with subconscious daddy issues and I’ve been desperate for attention since he left us! That was a joke, please laugh.
When I think about my life thus far, it feels less like a linear journey and more like a tumbleweed with roots entangled in themselves, growing in various, chaotic directions. Forgive me for that horrible metaphor… remember, my dad is dying so you cannot judge me for elementary figurative language right now! Anyway, I think that’s because I have been stuck in a never-ending cycle of grief. I don’t think any members of my family have fully healed from losing our dad to a half-gallon of vodka.
I’m not sure if he’s going to survive this time or not, and as I work through what that might mean for my mental health, I think my lesson in all of this is that grief doesn’t make any fucking sense at all (pardon my french). As much as we’d like to think we do, humans don’t experience years worth of pain and then suddenly get over it one day. I will grieve this loss for the rest of my life to some extent, and I guess I am writing this to allow myself that slack.
If I’m really honest with myself, I probably feel some sense of relief that I’m sad about something that is familiar to me, rather than the fact that the whole world is on fire around me. ~Nature is healing~
