My Dad

I know I mentioned a bit about my dad in a previous blog.  I was seven when he died.  It was not easy for my family.

At seven, in 1973, my opinions and thoughts were not of importance.  I'm not knocking it, that's just the way it was.  What was important was that I was taken care of along with my brothers and sisters.  Being sure we were all accounted for and safe was what was paramount.

I didn't spend much time back then, or for many years afterwards, thinking about what my mother was going thru.  Selfishly as a pre-teen my world was what was important.  I think that's fairly normal.  I worried about me, my needs and wants.  

It wasn’t until waaayyyyyy later that I was able to put myself in my mother’s place and see what her world of circumstances were when I was her youngest of eleven kids and her spouse, and love of her life, died.

I have dwelled on it for years now.  I'm 46 with two kids, she was 47 with eleven and newly widowed.  OUCH, now there's pain and shock hitting like a freight train.

I spent many years mad at my dad.  I used to talk to him and tell him I thought he was a coward.  That he chose cigarettes over his family and that I detested him for it.  I told him he wasn't good enough for my mother and that she was better off without him.  I said mean things to him because I was mad he left her all alone and overwhelmed.  I was mad she was always working and exhausted.

When I look back now I think... how terrible!  How awful to carry around so much anger and rage at one of the nicest men ever.  I barely knew my dad.  I learned about his personality from my older siblings as they shared stories.  There's a seventeen year span between my oldest sister Ann and me.  Add nine in between.  They talked about how kind my dad was and how he wanted a whole team of children and adored each one so much.  I learned to forgive and love him but it took some time.

I felt awful about spending so much time being angry at him.  He died a slow, dreadful death.  He used a big oxygen tank at night and had a little portable one during the day.  Of course he knew he was going to die.  I never spent any time in all my selfish years looking at it from his perspective.  Yes, he knew his body was failing him and he was going to pass leaving his beloved wife and eleven children behind.  I can't imagine the pain it caused him daily as he grew weaker and knew his time was limited.

Why am I bringing this up?  I'm trying to learn from carrying the anger way back when I was a kid.  I don't want to repeat it again now that my son is gone.  I'm really trying to be cognizant of it and diffuse it.  I don't want to spend wasted years of such a heavy load.  I'm working on it every day.  I want so desperately for my son to walk thru the door.  He's not going to.  It fills me with so much anger sometimes I don't know what I'm going to do. Sometimes I want to run out the door screaming because I'm not sure what to do with my feelings.  Other times I feel paralyzed and I literally can't move my feet.  Everything stiffens up and I have to linger there until it releases.

I'm working on finding the good in the day, in the hour, in the minute.  Sometimes it’s easier than others but I know I need to learn from my past experiences with my mom and my dad and our circumstances and I know I can do better than I did when I was a kid.  I've got better coping skills now and a clearer head.  I can do this.  I will do this.  My dad is with my son and they are helping me thru this.  Christopher has met his grandfather.  How can I be mad about that?  They're together with God and I will be just fine for now.  

Thank you for reading.