For the Love of a Dad

My dad was always on the run. I can?t remember a time when he didn?t have at least two jobs. He never slowed down.

Dad grew up in Tampa, Florida, during the Depression. He dropped out of school in the ninth grade. He shined shoes, sold papers, delivered Western Union Telegrams, fished and crabbed to help support his family. His Dad worked part-time off the hiring board on the Seaboard Railroad.

It was an unhealthy home. My dad and his two brothers were beaten by their second generation alcoholic parents. One day, dad delivered a Western Union death notice to the right address on the wrong street. He was fired. His parents told him that without that job, he couldn?t live at home. Lying about his age, the next day they placed their 17-year-old son on a merchant ship.

He eventually found his way to San Francisco and married my mom. As a merchant seaman, he served in the South Pacific through World War II.

I grew up with two brothers and three sisters. My older brother is eleven months older than me. I?m a product of ?you can?t get pregnant while you?re nursing.?

With dad?s drive to work and make ends meet, it was hard to get any of the love a son needed and desired. Dad seemed to never be there for me.

Papa was a multi-talented innovative man with a great imagination. Given different circumstances, education, and direction, there is no telling where life might have taken him.

It should be no surprise that dad and mom (mom also came from an alcoholic home) became alcoholics. Unhealthiness often seems to follow unhealthiness.
There was always fighting. I was embarrassed to bring friends home. There were families who had far less financially, but were bound by nurturing love. Their kids? esteem appeared higher.

I can only remember going on a couple of family trips. They ended in disaster.

Eventually, dad bounced around to several alcoholic programs and hospitals on his downward spiral. He lived for sometime at the Salvation Army. Dad was a survivor.

Mom gave whatever love there was in the family. My dad was cheated out of the love a son needs from his father; I was, too. There was something missing in my life. It felt as if I was carrying excess baggage for a trip I could never take.

I set out to capture the love I didn?t get?the cup of sugar that I needed from my dad.

Papa was on Social Security and renting a room in someone else?s home. I started picking him up to go places so we could spend time together. I was trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.

It?s almost impossible to grow up in an unhealthy home without being damaged to some degree. For my own mental health, I started going to Al-Anon meetings.
This wonderful fellowship that provides tools and hope for families of alcoholics allowed me to take the focus off my dad and concentrate on living a happier life for myself.

Z Pain is inevitable; misery is optional.

On one of our outings, I was trying to explain what had been missing and the love I needed from my dad. As I looked into my father?s eyes, I realized he didn?t have a clue as to what I was talking about.

My father couldn?t give me what he didn?t have! He had never been given this tool of love from his family. This, in itself, was a great healing moment. If I got nothing else, I would be able to let the pain go. If I had waited expecting this process to start with my father, it would have probably never happened. This was a process that had to begin with myself, then with my dad and me.

I had been anxious, angry and frustrated wanting love from my dad. Now, I was careful not to overwhelm him or beat him up with my emotions for what I expected he should have known or given me. I felt it would only alienate him further.

Coming from where he had been and with his standards, dad might have thought he had done a decent job. It had taken a long time to get to this point and I wasn?t going to resolve the situation quickly.

When I was a toddler, I took ?baby steps? before I could walk; the same applied here with my dad. But as uncomfortable as it was at times to communicate my feelings, I tried not to place myself in the injured child or victim role. This was the only dad I had.

I continued taking dad out during the next few years. Since he never planned to go anywhere during his life, he didn?t know where to go or what to do. We went on day and overnight trips. He liked to go places where he could learn something. I found myself giving my dad the love I had missed, and doing for him what he couldn?t or wouldn?t do for us kids when we were growing up. I still hoped and prayed I?d receive that cup of love.

Papa was staying with one of my brothers until emphysema required him to move to a care facility. I told him it was difficult for me to watch him slowly commit suicide with cigarettes. Although he stopped drinking (only because he would be kicked out of where he lived), he refused to quit smoking.

Eventually, a wheelchair provided the escape to be able to go on our trips. A good meal became a highlight.

When his condition worsened, we moved papa to a convalescent hospital near our home so two of my sisters and their families could also be a part of his life.

The call finally came. Dad was in the hospital again. This survivor was losing the battle. Emphysema was suffocating him. We circled the wagons with all the family members.

Some of us say ?when we go, we want to go fast.? But sometimes the Lord provides this time to provide healing for the family.

Papa had been given morphine for the pain. He was not responding to us. Then the doctor gave us a gift. He gave dad a drug called Narcan that neutralizes opiate drugs.

Within two minutes, papa woke up bright-eyed. He scanned the room, smiled, then looked right at me and said, ?Thanks for everything. I didn?t know how much I loved you until I got to know you.? There was my cup of love.

Our family spent a joyful healing hour with papa.
When I was getting off work the next day, it struck me that it was time for me to forgive my dad for the baggage I had been carrying. He was still alive. What was I going to do, go to his gravesite or write letters to him of my forgiveness after his death? If not now, when? It needed to begin with me.

I rushed to the hospital. I told my dad that I forgave him for all that happened when I was growing up. He acknowledged that he understood. We prayed. As I left the hospital, I had not anticipated the overwhelming relief of the burden that I had finally released. I believe it?s almost never too late.

Dad slipped away the next day, but not without giving a son the love only a dad can give.

If you have an estranged relationship as I had and you are waiting for the other person to take the first step, it may never happen. You?ll never know until you try. Don?t expect miracles. I found out my Dad couldn?t give me what he didn?t have.

Tell those around you that you love them. I know it?s hard for men to do. But get the chicken bone out of your throat and say it. A good way to start is by ending a phone conversation by saying, ?I love you.? Then, see what happens.

From the book Fire Up Your Communications Skills by

Fire Catpain Bob http://www.eatstress.com/barbaraw.htm