I thought I hated my dad. Sure I had forgiven him for being a deadbeat dad and running out on my mom, leaving her with 3 kids to take care of on her own. I had gotten over the times I felt more like an acquaintance than a son when I happened to be around him. Yes, I still thought I hated him. Forgiven but not forgotten.
I vowed that his demise, however it came, would be met with a shrug. I would not show emotions and I would not care. That’s what I thought, but it’s not really who I am. I didn’t know that. I thought his sins were too great to overlook. I was wrong. I thought his continued stubbornness was too much to ignore. How could he not take advantage of the opportunities to make up?
When I first heard that my dad was hospitalized, I thought ‘So what? Poor fella but you reap what you sow’. I was told that he actually asked about me a few times to which I responded incredulously with, “He actually knew my name?” A couple of days ago, I received a text from my brother that the old man had taken a turn for the worse. and might make it. He was dying? Like dying? No more daddy? Slowly my barrier came down like the Berlin wall. We are talking about my dad here! Sure he did a jerk thing but he did do one thing right, he sired me.
So here I was, shredding my stored up daddy-hate like a snake shedding its skin. Death and dying have a way of bringing people together, putting aside differences to share a common emotion. Hearing about my Dad’s fate helped me to unload the baggage I was carrying around that was filled with anger and hurt.
My brother apparently finds it easier to let go of the past and has taken a week off work to travel to London to be at his Dad’s bedside.
My thoughts and prayers are with the old man at this time because after all, he’s still my dad.