Dad

Dad is sort of a loaded word for me. To be honest, I sometimes have a hard time with what it means, who I’m referring to when I say it. You see, somewhere around the time I was in 2^nd or 3^rd grade, my parents got divorced. I, along with my younger sister, were left in the primary care of my mother, while our father, who was, at the time, just dealing with the amputation of his right arm, due to a degenerative nerve disease, lived his own life. At first, we saw him regularly, as he lived only a mile or so from where my mother, sister, and I were staying. Occasionally, my sister and I would spend an afternoon after school with him, or something of the like, especially if our mother was working late. However, about a year after the divorce, he moved away from us, and we began to see him less and less.

At first, it was about once a month. He had moved back to the area where his extended family lived, in New Hampshire, so we would make the trip up the interstate, visit for a weekend, and then return home. Then, after another year or so, he met another woman, with whom he got married, and together, they moved to Florida. After that, my sister and I only got to see him about once a year, usually for a week or two during the summer.

I remember those days in sort of a haze. Our lives went on as well, our mother also remarried, and we ended up moving into the house we currently live now. I remember being very adverse to the move. I was uncomfortable with the idea of moving away from the town I was used to being in, and certainly very uncomfortable with the idea of my family dynamic changing. I was very skeptical about the relationship with both of my step-parents at first, but especially my step-dad, because he was the one who I lived with.

Being as young as I was, I was fiercely loyal to my biological father. I remember being upset with my mother every time I heard her saying something negative about him, and ultimately, I think my goal was really just to try and convince her that he wasn’t so bad, in a vain sort of attempt to go back to the life I had known before. Luckily, however, my mother was a forgiving and understanding woman, and the man she had newly married was much the same. In time, I developed a relationship with my step-father, but I was still very skeptical about him being able to “replace” my “real dad.” That is, however, until one summer visit with my “real dad” changed the way I had to look at things.

This was the last trip I ever made to spend an extended period of time with my “real dad.” I was a lot older than I had been, and I was either just getting ready to, or had just started high school. Whatever age I was, I was very quizzical, very active, and, apparently, difficult to manage. I hadn’t been enjoying the trip, for some reason I couldn’t quite figure out. I had never enjoyed being away from home anyway, but still, my father seemed very cross with me, just generally upset about the way I was acting for some reason. This came to a head one day, when my sister and I were playing by the pool.

As we were finishing up, and drying off, I, being the antagonistic big brother that I was, playfully swatted at my sister with my towel.  She protested, loudly, but seemed fairly-well undamaged by the experience. However, no sooner had I begun to giggle at my mischief than a hand was wrapped around my upper arm. It was my step-mother, thrown into a righteous fury by the apparent danger my sister faced from my towel-swing, including, as I understand it, loss of an eye. I was dragged, quite bewilderedly, to the room where Jordan and I were staying, and was told that I was to stay there until dinner, with no entertainment. As she bent down to take away the book I had been reading, she announced that, as well, as soon as my father returned home from work, he would be informed of my transgression, and would likely beat me.

To be fair, my relationship with my step-mother had always been strained, even more-so than the one with me step-father. I had always been confused about the relationship with my dad, but never once had I questioned my loyalty to my mother, who had always cared for me, had always been there when I needed her. As far as I was concerned, this woman was nothing more than an applicant for a job that had already been filled. But still, this was unforgivable. The “towel incident” occurred a little after lunch time, and we weren't due to eat dinner until nearly 6-o’clock.  Surely, my father would rush home to my rescue, to explain the situation, how sometimes siblings play with each other.

I don’t remember much about the rest of that afternoon, aside from being sad, lonely, and the most homesick I had ever been. However, I do remember the look on my father’s face when he came home. There was none of the forgiveness, the understanding, and the support that I believed I would receive. Instead simply a stern look, and lecture about how I needed to behave, and be careful with my sister.  I don’t remember being asked for my side of the story, or even for a chance to apologize. I was simply told the behavior would not be tolerated. For that moment, it didn’t seem that I was his son. More like his employee. I was to be told how to act, and if my behavior became a nuisance, I would simply be disposed of.

The next day, I called my mother. No one else was in the house at the time, I think maybe because, between my sister and step-mother, my father had been convinced that what the family needed were some new pet turtles (I’m sure I was invited, but I’m also fairly certainly the looks of disappointment were few when I declined) I told my mother the trip was going alright, and really was just happy to hear her voice, but, before I hung up the phone, a synapse fired in my brain, that caused me to ask what I thought was a stupid question.

“Mom, does Dad love (my sister) more than me?” In my head, I heard my mother’s voice admonishing me for how stupid a question it was. “Of course not, silly, you know that’s not true!” I expected her to say. Instead, what I got was simple silence. And I’ve never heard anything more upsetting in my life.

After I came back, I did a little soul-searching, and with the help of my mother, and grandparents, who knew my father better than I did, I came to realize some things. First, and most importantly, for both a young me and for you, the reader, to know, is that, growing up, my father had a strained relationship with his father. After a troubled childhood, he moved out of his house when he was only 15, and made his way in the world as a basically self-sufficient adult before he had graduated high school.  Secondly, was that the idea of my father loving my sister more than me was inaccurate, in truth. What it amounts to it, as I understand it now, is that my father really just didn’t know how to deal with me. He wasn’t lacking in affection for me, he was just unsure and uncomfortable about showing it to me. He didn’t want me to be “soft.”

Since that trip, however, my relationship with my biological father has been strained. While I love him, and respect him for who he is, there are things that he does sometimes that still leave me frustrated. Things like his lack of financial support or simply his absence during my years growing up. There’s a part of me that really wants to resent him for all the things that he did wrong as a father. But I can’t, for a number of reasons. For starters, I was raised in a household where hating is something that’s frowned upon, and forgiveness is passed around nearly as frequently as love. As a mature, 20-year old adult man now, I see that the things that happened to my father were never intentional, and never done in anger, or resentment. There were just a lot for mistakes that were made, and there is no human who deserves to be punished for the capacity to make mistakes, which is a trait we all share. As well, I really believe my father is sorry for not being around when I was growing up. I think he’s sorry that he doesn’t have more to offer me now, and that, if he knew how, he would make up for everything that wasn’t perfect.  

But, I think the most important thing for me, in being able to forgive my father for leaving an empty place in my life, is the man who got the opportunity to fill it, and took full advantage. Because, really, after coming home from that trip, I realized that my “dad” had been around the whole time. This was the man who would later teach me how to change the oil in my car, who would come to my football games and cheer me on, who would tell me all about the ups and downs of “women,” and who would be and still is an amazing father to me, my sister, and my step-sister, as well as a loving and caring husband to my mother. He's a reat man, who I look up to, both as a parent, a role model, and a friend.

So, that just leaves the question of now. When I’m talking to my friends, and I say “My dad this...” or “My Dad that…” who am I talking about? What do I mean? This is a question I still struggle with. On the one hand, the man responsible for my existence on this planet is, if the definition of the word is to be believed, certainly deserving of the title. On the other hand, however, is the man who was there to raise me, who saw the important parts of my life first hand, and who certainly had a big hand in me being the man I am today. So that means I have two dads then? I still ask myself that question. I still wonder if there’s room in my life for two people who are “Dad,” and what it takes to earn that title from me. I may never find a satisfactory answer. But one thing is for certain...

Every so often, in those times after that fateful trip, there would be talk in the family about my ability to “break the cycle,” when it came time for me to be a dad. In those days, I was always nervous whenever someone brought it up, because I was never sure if I could be a “dad.” And yet, growing up in the way that I did, with the family I did, with love and care and support and understanding, I’m not afraid anymore. It may not (read: will not) be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but someday, I’m going to grow up and be the best Dad I can be. When the day comes, and I become the one who bears the title, I will do so with pride, and, no matter what happens, I will do everything in my power to make sure that “Dad,” is a name that I deserve. I may not be perfect, but thankfully I had the chance to learn that I don’t have to be.

(One thing I do believe deserves special mention is this: I would like to take the time to thank my biological father for inspiring me to write this blog in the first place, by writing his own. His, started in February of this year, centers around his life with RSD, a debilitating nerve disease that has always affected his life in a serious manner, but has recently forced him to stop working, and has begun to have an even more major effect on his life. I have linked to this blog, as well as a description of the disease, below, and, while I encourage you to read the blog, please be warned. This disease has had a profoundly negative effect on my father’s life, and his posts are very reflective of that:

The blog: http://myrsdlife.wordpress.com/

RSD, Or Complex Regional Pain syndrome: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complex_regional_pain_syndrome