One Long Week

There's no right way to deliver the news that your father has died. My mom did it bluntly last Saturday morning. Have to admit to being stunned. Yes he was 79, but his health was not in decline. Slowing down for sure, but he looked like he was good for five more years.

Anyone who has been reading me knows I didn't have the most ideal relationship with my father. To be blunt, for the first 16 years of my life he wasn't much of a father. By the time he became a good father, I wasn't much of a son.

The good thing is that over the last few years I made peace with him as best as I good. My chest still tightened every time I heard his voice and I never completely felt relaxed in his presence. At the same time I lost the rage I carried for things that happened so long ago.

Part of that was getting sober. If this was five years ago and my father was gone, I'd be sitting in the Dublin House right now swigging beers and cursing him for leaving before I got a chance to tell him what I thought. I'd have been left with nothing but anger and resentments and no where to point the blame.

Fortunately, I don't feel that now. I was able to say what I needed to say and I did it as a sober man, not a bitter drunk. More time would've been nice and maybe even got us closer to some place where my chest would never feel the need to tighten in reaction to his presence.

But that wasn't meant to be and the truth is that the blame for that falls a lot more on me than him. He said as much a few years ago. He recognized his part in our relationship, but added that ultimately it was up to me to move on from it.

He was right, of course. I did a little, but never far enough. The truth is that for most of my life I foolishly thought the anger in me about him and my family was some vital core of my being and without I would cease to exist. Putting down the drink made me see the opposite was true. It was killing me.

I have not yet mourned his death. I think I'm still feeling like I'm in limbo. I will visit his home next week just to feel his presence. There was no funeral. There will be a memorial, but I can't wait for that. I need to walk the rooms he lived in and let it all hit me. It's something I need to do.

The good thing is that no matter how hard all this will get in the months and years ahead, I know in the end I did the best I could to reconcile things with him and myself and I'm at peace with it.

I read all these appreciations of his work and life and I see how much was passed on to me without me even realizing it. I'm just glad I can smile about it now.