Dad,
I have thought about you from time to time over the last 20 years though I confess that I have put some effort into not doing so.
In the past, my thoughts have always followed the same course: I draw up an indictment. The accusations have been held and turned in my hand for so many years that they have worn smooth. They lie polished and comfortable in my palm as I close my fingers over them. It’s as much as I can do not to run through the whole charge sheet now. Let me pick one. Do you remember when I was four or five I wandered into the neighbouring field where older boys were trying to start a fire? I scared you so you scared me. You climbed the stairs shouting, enraged, dangling me by my wrist and kicking me as we headed to my bedroom. I was released at dinner time and made to eat dinner naked to “teach me a lesson”.
Because the indictment is forever in draft, I have never heard your defence. If you had a barrister he would tell the court that you are a product of your own parenting and education: your father the headmaster, your time boarding at school or as a cadet on HMS Conway – so much discipline. I accept the force of the argument.
If you represented yourself your theme would more likely be exculpatory self-justification. Hasn’t it all turned out alright? Haven’t I done well enough? Weren’t all those lessons you taught me ultimately valuable ones? I have to say that I am not sure that the lessons I learned were those you intended to teach me. I cannot bear to have people stood behind me as I eat. I cannot believe that anyone, even P, is sincere when they say they love me and when a girl I once cared for first raised a hand to touch my face I flinched. I know you would despise that weakness and one lesson you certainly taught me was to despise myself.
When H called me, she said she had news but wasn’t sure how I would react. She said you have cancer. I gather it is in your bowel, your lung and your liver.
H was concerned I would be pleased. She worried that I would see this as you getting what you deserve. That is not how I feel at all. No-one deserves what you will be going through.
I did not feel happy; I felt nothing. That, I am afraid, is what you deserve – I stopped caring. Don’t misunderstand, I have no animus; I am not angry with you; I do not hate you. I have, I suppose, forgiven you. So let me say, not as son to father but man to man, I hope the treatment goes well. I hope you are spared the suffering and the indignity and I hope you find peace. I am sorry.
Moobs,
It’s hard to imagine having those feelings about one’s Dad. I wish you didn’t have to have them.
Moobs, I get this 100 percent. My father and I were largely estranged until the end of his life, which came this past spring. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve what he went through either. I am glad I had the chance to wish him well and peace as an adult who had forgiven, but not forgotten.
Glad you’ve found a measure of forgiveness.
This was extremely similar to my childhood with my alcoholic mother. So this really resonates with me.
I understand, I wish I didn’t but I do.
((moobs))
What a brave letter, Moobs. Sad, and brave and perfect all at the same time.
I love your writing. On even a terrible topic such as this one, your words are beautiful.
This is so lovely, Moobs. And it’s so courageous because it defies cultural norms for very good, well considered reason. Good for you for forgiving without acquiring amnesia.
I feel so lucky to have blog-met you, Moobs. Without even realizing it, you teach me things… courage, forgiveness, integrity, honesty… You blog in a way that I don’t know that I ever can. Thank you for sharing this and so many other personal stories with those of us that have grown to love you through your blog.
Moobs, it is terribe to contemplate the death of a parent, loved or otherwise. I feel blessed (atheist that I am) that I had parents that I love. They’re gone, but I love them still.
Your strength comes from somewhere, or something. I only know you from your blog, but recognizing your grace and compassion, I still think that your humanity must spring from somewhere or something.
I was just thinking of you. I am so sorry to hear about your father. Having had a number of significant but logical deaths in my family this year, I know the feeling of sorrow, regret, remorse, and a ‘what did you expect?’. It’s hard to be human and do it well.
As always you inspire.
((hug)) I hope you and P are well
Oh Moobs…I’m so sorry.
This is a letter that should never need be written. I’m sorry any child should have to struggle with these feelings at any time about their own parent.
Damn.
We’re not always connected.
Still… you’re on my mind now.
As always, you impress me with your writing. So powerful. So beautiful. I am sad for what you’ve had to go through in your life… I’m happy for the amazing person you have turned out to be despite all those hardships.
jees.
Moobs. I know this feeling. Such a powerful letter and such a damn shame that you’ve been through this. Go through this.
mental hug xx
(not like a crazy hug – but like a telepathic one… in fact I’ll rename it…)
Telepathic hug
🙂
I’m sorry to read of your childhood, and of the cancer. My rather similar dad had the gift of recognizing many years ago that he could have done much better, and of telling me so.
An early reaction I had to reading this was to advise you to get out of law. Seriously, spend this next year (while still earning your lawyer’s pay) writing novels, book reviews, essays–whatever, and finding an agent. As a lawyer I can tell you I’ve learned that it will feed your bank account, but never your soul. And as you know, nothing is healed in the courtroom.
Hugs from across the pond.
I wanted to respond to such a powerful post only now I’m at a loss for words. But I will try: Amazing writing about a complicated relationship. And I am sorry about the bad news that is also complicated because of said relationship. Hugs to you for being brave enough to write about it.