I'm not with my father today, Father's Day. He passed away (that's a euphemism, kids) a couple of years ago after a decade of suffering physically. We were all ready for him to be out of his daily misery, including Dad. He had a fall getting out of his car, which he should not have been driving in the first place. He broke his leg in the fall, but his stubbornness, for which he was legendary, led to his driving himself home. I'm not kidding. When he got home, he was stuck in the car. My mother could not get him out, but he would not allow her to call an ambulance. Eventually, their yard man came and was able to lift Dad out of the car and more-or-less drag him into the house. Dad was able to situate himself in his chair, all the while proclaiming that he was fine. His attitude changed when he realized he could not get out of the chair to get to the bathroom.
My mother called for an ambulance.
The next morning, he had a titanium rod and several pins inserted to try and save his leg. He never fully recovered. He went back and forth between hospital and rehab facility until he finally had enough. My mother and I were (and still are) eternally grateful that my father never made it home. He would have been too much for my mother and me to handle, and his history with home health was, shall we say, checkered. The man was a nightmare.
He didn't drink that we know of, and he didn't use drugs, but he was emotionally and physically abusive. What did I learn from my father?
How to hide.
How to be compliant.
How to vacuum a rug even when deathly ill. (To his credit, he later apologized for this one.)
I don't miss my father. I miss the relationship that I see with other father-daughter pairs that I never had. I never called mine "Daddy." I never counted on him for anything except diagnosing what was wrong with a car.
About the car...
My father didn't understand me or my generation of women. Women were supposed to be seen, preferably in the kitchen, with an apron on, but not heard unless spoken to. I was supposed to find a husband and move out. Unfortunately, I have a brain, and had no interest in getting married. I wasn't even sure how to interact with the opposite sex. I had no example to go on.
When I started college, which is a story for another day, my father bet me that I'd be married before I graduated. I said, "Sure, Dad. How about if I graduate, you buy me a new car?" He eagerly agreed, thinking he was the clear winner in this one.
When my mother let him know that he would be attending graduation in a football stadium, to see me with cap, gown, and numerous honors tassels, he plotzed. That's a Yiddish word that means he exploded. He had to follow through with his commitment. He did, sort of.
He bought me a car, but it was used, leaked from the sunroof, left oil patches wherever I parked, and was in the repair shop more often than I had money to pay for. I reminded him that he promised me a new car. He did not apologize. His response?
"It's new to you. Now it is your car. You take care of it."
I traded it for a brand new Mercury Tracer, the only thing I could afford, as soon as I had my first full-time job. I never loved a car more than that tiny hunk of junk, a manual transmission subcompact 2-door hatchback. It didn't leak from the top or the bottom.
My father taught me to drive. He did not teach me to love. I am grateful for my existence, though.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
My mother called for an ambulance.
The next morning, he had a titanium rod and several pins inserted to try and save his leg. He never fully recovered. He went back and forth between hospital and rehab facility until he finally had enough. My mother and I were (and still are) eternally grateful that my father never made it home. He would have been too much for my mother and me to handle, and his history with home health was, shall we say, checkered. The man was a nightmare.
He didn't drink that we know of, and he didn't use drugs, but he was emotionally and physically abusive. What did I learn from my father?
How to hide.
How to be compliant.
How to vacuum a rug even when deathly ill. (To his credit, he later apologized for this one.)
I don't miss my father. I miss the relationship that I see with other father-daughter pairs that I never had. I never called mine "Daddy." I never counted on him for anything except diagnosing what was wrong with a car.
About the car...
My father didn't understand me or my generation of women. Women were supposed to be seen, preferably in the kitchen, with an apron on, but not heard unless spoken to. I was supposed to find a husband and move out. Unfortunately, I have a brain, and had no interest in getting married. I wasn't even sure how to interact with the opposite sex. I had no example to go on.
When I started college, which is a story for another day, my father bet me that I'd be married before I graduated. I said, "Sure, Dad. How about if I graduate, you buy me a new car?" He eagerly agreed, thinking he was the clear winner in this one.
When my mother let him know that he would be attending graduation in a football stadium, to see me with cap, gown, and numerous honors tassels, he plotzed. That's a Yiddish word that means he exploded. He had to follow through with his commitment. He did, sort of.
He bought me a car, but it was used, leaked from the sunroof, left oil patches wherever I parked, and was in the repair shop more often than I had money to pay for. I reminded him that he promised me a new car. He did not apologize. His response?
"It's new to you. Now it is your car. You take care of it."
I traded it for a brand new Mercury Tracer, the only thing I could afford, as soon as I had my first full-time job. I never loved a car more than that tiny hunk of junk, a manual transmission subcompact 2-door hatchback. It didn't leak from the top or the bottom.
My father taught me to drive. He did not teach me to love. I am grateful for my existence, though.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.