On Fathers and Father's Day...

A couple of months ago, one of my employees lost his dad unexpectedly.  He was sick, he was better, he was sick again, and then he was gone ... all within the span of two weeks.  This week, at work, as the weekend approached, Father's Day weekend, I kept debating whether to say something or to leave it be.  I wasn't sure if anything I would say would be the right thing or would help at all, but I wanted to let him know that I knew this time couldn't be easy for him.  I just couldn't seem to find the right words or the right time.

So there I was sitting my office, working, and working on the "right" thing to say, when these words appeared on my screen:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.

And there it was, the emotional equivalent of a drive-by shooting from another employee of mine, sending these words not to our colleague but to me.

As many of you know, as she knows, I lost my dad 25 years ago in an accident, but I hadn't even been thinking about what the lack of a father on Father's Day meant to me personally.  It's been so long that I had a dad that I don't find myself thinking about it, but the tears and sadness that her words brought made me realize that, like everyone who has ever lost someone, the loss is always there just beneath the surface, and sometimes it spills over when we least expect it.

And as I get older, as more of my friends become fathers in their own right, and my circle fills with fathers, somehow the loss feels sharper.  Maybe it's that I'm witnessing firsthand some of the things that I feel I missed.  The pat on the back comforting a cry.  The reassuring nod offered when a child turns around to make sure dad's there.  A steadying hand to wobbly footing.

It's also a bit ironic that the loss feels deeper since, as I age, more and more friends have lost their fathers so no longer am I part of some precious, rare group.  Every year I age, there are more of us in the fatherless category, and yet, it doesn't feel any better or easier.   Maybe it never will.   Maybe the loss is compounded by the inevitability and the unfairness of it all - not to mention the march of time.

It feels wrong to say that, when my father passed, the result of a violent accident that, somewhat ironically, was in no way his fault, I could finally breathe.  When someone you love is struggling, you're always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the phone to ring with the bad news that surely will come, it's just a matter of time.   Sure, I felt sad when he passed, but I also felt some relief - for him and for me and my whole family.  I didn't have to worry anymore that he'd show up at school again and try to take me with him.  I didn't have to feel guilty for not answering his calls or not returning his letters.  I didn't have to try to process feelings well beyond my emotional maturity level at 6 or 10 - or, who am I kidding? - 41.

So maybe it's that, now, as an adult, I can see beyond my fear of him to love and understanding, and that's where the sense of loss kicks in.

I've been open about the fact that my dad wasn't a perfect man and certainly not the perfect father.  No one is.  He struggled with alcoholism and his behavior was ruled by his disease.  As I get older, I realize more and more how much of a struggle he really had, and how, really, at the end of the day, we're all just doing the best that we can.  Sometimes it's not enough, but day after day, we're all just waking up, putting one foot in front of the other and giving it the old college try.

Sometimes I do things I'm not proud of.  I'm impatient and controlling and refuse to ask for help.  I'm overly sensitive to looking stupid and have an overdeveloped sense of justice.  Often, I say things I wish I hadn't and never say the things I should.  I haven't mastered the flow of thinking BEFORE you speak as I prefer to ruminate and obsess for years after instead of investing two seconds before in a moment of consideration that could save me a lot of grief - and sleep, and, on too many an occasion, calories.  But pretty much always, I come from a good place.

As I become more self-aware, I see how not having paternal support did impact who I've become - for better and for worse.   To every positive, a corresponding negative.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but it's better to be rubber - tough but flexible - than brick - thick and unyielding.  I've spend a lot of time working in brick.  Maybe it's time to switch to another medium.

Someone asked me recently if I felt cheated not really having a dad growing up.  Honestly, yes, but more in the fairytale way that probably never would have been a reality.  I think about being walked down the aisle at my wedding and other pop culture "dad" situations that I've seen on television and in the movies as being "perfect, bonding moments."  Aw, shucks, dad.

Real life is far messier, so I know that, in reality, my life wouldn't have played out in those ways.  In real life, I've had amazing uncles, cousins, brother-in-laws, teachers, mentors, coworkers and friends who have filled various "dad" roles at certain points in my life and will continue to do so.  I have been very fortunate to be surrounded by wonderful, caring men.  My friend Antonio is impatiently waiting for me to find someone and get married so he can walk me down the aisle and do the father/daughter dance - a role he is taking very seriously.

And my mother, as a single mom for most of my life, did a pretty great job as both mom and dad.  Which is why on Father's Day, I try to send her a small gift -- just a little something to acknowledge that, finally, as an adult, I know how hard it must have been being both parents.  And, as I get older and consider my own options, I don't know if being a single parent is something that I would be by choice, and yet, there she was.

So, on Father's Day, sure I feel a little sad, a little wistful, but mostly I feel happy watching the joy the great dads I know feel having children, and hoping they soak up the much-deserved love and appreciation on this day.

And to those who have lost their dads too soon - it's always too soon - I simply say:

I'll be thinking of you this weekend.  I know it must be hard for you.