When he turned seventy, we gathered in a nondescript Rockville restaurant, a long table in a windowed annex, tall potted ferns decorated the space. His wife Diane, her kids, my brothers David, Dana, our spouses and me. Those who had children brought them. My father made a speech, wrapping it up with “I hope to have one more birthday with a zero in it. I really want to live to eighty.” A few minutes later we sang him Happy Birthday with at least one of his smartass sons adding on to the end of the song “and te-e-en more.”
When he turned eighty-five, we gathered at Cabin John regional park for a catered picnic. Another great get-together on a beautiful spring day, but the vibe had shifted. David’s kids were adults. Dana’s were teens, my brothers and I well into our fifties. Everybody ages. Everybody slows down. A month later David posted a photo from the day on Facebook to celebrate Father’s Day. It was the first time I ever looked at a picture of my father and thought “Whoa, he’s getting old.” By the time he turned ninety, the parties were over. I think we all met at Dana’s house for a quiet dinner and an early night.
A few weeks ago, we contracted Seniors Helping Seniors for overnight care. One of the first morning reports included a comment from the caregiver, “We discussed his life for much of the night. Wow, talk about ‘Never give up!’”
His life: His mother died when he was an infant. His father died by suicide ten years later, my father found the body. His sister, already an adult, handed him off to a neighbor when she moved to England. His first wife, my mother, died of cancer. His second wife died of cancer. I once discussed my father’s life with my therapist. She gasped. “It’s like he’s lived a life of abandonment.”
I never once heard him complain about the hand he was dealt. Despite his experiences, or maybe because of them, my father was the most outgoing person I ever met. He made friends everywhere. In the ski rental line at Liberty resort; In the sandy patch between our beach house and the one next door; At the host station of our favorite Chinese restaurant; With my manager as he waited for me to finish my Saturday afternoon shift at Shakey’s Pizza. If someone was available, he’d engage them like a best friend.
Ever since my brothers and I got out of college, my father’s mantra was ‘You’re on your own now. Don’t come to me looking for help.” This was a threat, well no, a promise, I always took seriously. I found it empowering. Yes, he and my mother gave me a stable start, they paid for college, and my father helped me find my first job, but everything after that has been all me. His line in the sand gave me my sense of independence.
Six years ago, I made my sole career blunder. I accepted a job in a charter school that I instantly regretted. The workload was overwhelming, my boss, abusive. My duties bore no resemblance to what we discussed during my interview, and I hated every second of it. On top of all that, I had to memorize the names of two hundred kids.
I became paralyzed with depression. Leaving work Friday night, I already dreaded Monday morning. My whole weekend, my whole life became a slog of anxiety. When I told my father what was going on, that I needed to quit my job to restore my mental health, I spiraled out of control. I painted a worst-case scenario picture for him. I would never find another job. We would spend our retirement savings. We would lose our house, be forced to live in a cardboard box.
He told me to stop worrying about all of that. I should just take care of my health. Quit my job, take my time to find something better. He wasn’t going to abandon me. He wouldn’t let those terrible things happen to us.
A few weeks ago, when his final downward physical and mental slide escalated, my father told his friend Carla, Susan and me about his job managing the finances for the six towns surrounding Gettysburg. Nope, my father spent his career in the federal government. He described my job, except I manage the finances for the six libraries surrounding Gettysburg.
A few days later, he told my brothers that he once rode his bicycle across country. Again, my life, not his. At first, I wondered why he was suddenly appropriating my achievements when he had so many of his own. Suddenly, it occurred to me that he was proud of me. He subconsciously latched onto the things about me that I was proud of myself. I couldn’t think of a more flattering and affirming way he could ever praise me.
As my father’s health deteriorated over the last few years, it became clear that this day approached. Through this period, I hung onto the memory that during one of my darkest hours, my dad picked me up. He made sure I knew he had my back. And through his final days, I grasped onto the thought of him taking credit for my job and my bike trip. Both are clear reminders of his love and respect for me.
When my mother died, forty years ago, almost to the day, the hole in my life was immeasurable. Every time something good or bad happened to me, I reached for the phone to let her know before realizing I could no longer call her. With my father, it seems like providence that his failing memory has acclimated me to the loss of deep conversations with him. Our talks became shorter and more repetitive over the years to the point that lately, the only purpose was just to hear each other’s voice. But still, now that these talks have truly ended. I’ll miss them for sure.
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Previously Published on Jeff Cann’s blog and is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
