He's my dad too
Jun. 15th, 2025 10:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
k2daisyThe weekend has been very difficult. Lots of memories of my dad, and a lot of keening sobfests. I miss him so acutely right now.
One breakthrough I did have, though, is that I think I am finally mourning MY father. With all the interactions with my sisters since my parents died -- a lot more than we ever had in the past, we mostly communicated with my parents being the vector between us -- I have been learning that we each had very different relationships, perspectives, and images of our mutual father. My sister Alison always had a hard and hurtful relationship; she railed against him even as a kid, and said many times (as an adult) she hated him and only talked to them both so she could get money from them. But he made sure she was there before they started comfort measures, and they did talk and hug for a bit in the hospital. It was complicated between them, for sure. Then when he died and moreso after Mom did, she became obsessed with having his ashes in her possession. She used a lot of controlling language when she talked about them, and it was hard and uncomfortable to navigate through that period. Her single-mindedness about them ended up driving huge wedges in her relationships with my other sister and me.
It's mostly resolved now -- in that the ashes are with Kate and being prepared for a water burial in July -- but it was months and months of being immersed in Alison's relationship with Dad. And the only person I could really talk to you about it was Kate, and then I learned she too had her own relationship with Dad. She saw him as a wounded bird, someone who had something broken inside a long time ago that made him a figure of pity for her. All she ever talked about with me were his broken pieces: his drinking, his inner feeling of not being enough, his neglect/inability to be an engaged parent during our childhood.
But neither of those views are how I see Dad. I always admired and respected him. He was a role model to me all of his life. He was smart and funny and competitive and thoughtful. He made himself a success in his career, and he learned how to re-invent himself when it was over. He loved my mother every minute of their 57 years of marriage, even when she exasperated him to death. I loved spending time with him, a lot more than I think either of my sisters did. I liked learning from him, even if I teased him about it. He was curious about so many things; he read newspapers and magazines, and he loved engaging with everyone in his community and seeing it as a whole ecosystem. I loved, loved, loved playing games with him. I would give anything to play one last game of Rummikub with them both.
I feel like spending all those months mired in talking/hearing about Alison's and Kate's versions of Dad prevented me from mourning my own. So it's hitting me even harder now, seven months after he died. I want my Dad back. I don't want their versions in my head. I just want mine.
One breakthrough I did have, though, is that I think I am finally mourning MY father. With all the interactions with my sisters since my parents died -- a lot more than we ever had in the past, we mostly communicated with my parents being the vector between us -- I have been learning that we each had very different relationships, perspectives, and images of our mutual father. My sister Alison always had a hard and hurtful relationship; she railed against him even as a kid, and said many times (as an adult) she hated him and only talked to them both so she could get money from them. But he made sure she was there before they started comfort measures, and they did talk and hug for a bit in the hospital. It was complicated between them, for sure. Then when he died and moreso after Mom did, she became obsessed with having his ashes in her possession. She used a lot of controlling language when she talked about them, and it was hard and uncomfortable to navigate through that period. Her single-mindedness about them ended up driving huge wedges in her relationships with my other sister and me.
It's mostly resolved now -- in that the ashes are with Kate and being prepared for a water burial in July -- but it was months and months of being immersed in Alison's relationship with Dad. And the only person I could really talk to you about it was Kate, and then I learned she too had her own relationship with Dad. She saw him as a wounded bird, someone who had something broken inside a long time ago that made him a figure of pity for her. All she ever talked about with me were his broken pieces: his drinking, his inner feeling of not being enough, his neglect/inability to be an engaged parent during our childhood.
But neither of those views are how I see Dad. I always admired and respected him. He was a role model to me all of his life. He was smart and funny and competitive and thoughtful. He made himself a success in his career, and he learned how to re-invent himself when it was over. He loved my mother every minute of their 57 years of marriage, even when she exasperated him to death. I loved spending time with him, a lot more than I think either of my sisters did. I liked learning from him, even if I teased him about it. He was curious about so many things; he read newspapers and magazines, and he loved engaging with everyone in his community and seeing it as a whole ecosystem. I loved, loved, loved playing games with him. I would give anything to play one last game of Rummikub with them both.
I feel like spending all those months mired in talking/hearing about Alison's and Kate's versions of Dad prevented me from mourning my own. So it's hitting me even harder now, seven months after he died. I want my Dad back. I don't want their versions in my head. I just want mine.