In the opening sentences of Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger, the narrator Meursault says, “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.” I recall reading those famous lines so many years ago and wondering at a character, at a person, who could write about such a seemingly emotional event with utter detachment. How could one speak about death, about the death of his own mother, in such a nonchalant manner? It has taken me many years to understand.
My father is dead. In these simple words – a subject, a verb, and an adjective – I have totally changed the world of my existence, and my universe has shrunk by one. I must now speak in the past tense, not the present perfect. I found out about my father’s passing via one of my sisters, who had heard via my father’s third wife. It was sometime last week; I am not certain of the exact time or date, only that I found out on a Friday, in the morning, a few hours before my niece’s wedding. Like Camus’ character, I do not know much about the specifics surrounding the death of my own father, and while I have searched my heart and scanned my body for some kind of reaction to this reality, I feel very little. It is this detachment, this deadness in my own being in response to this news that scares me.
I supposed most children, if they are healthy and live long enough, will at one time or another have to learn about a parent’s death. It is the natural order of things, or so we are told. We are also told that the natural reaction to such news is profound sadness, grief, probably tears. For most people, death is not an easy concept and the knowledge that someone who has shared your life no longer exists is a complicated idea, one that reminds us all too swiftly of our own mortality.
My father. I had not seen nor spoken to him in over five years and therefore word of his passing is even more complex to fathom. Ours was a strained and oftentimes painful relationship – at least for me. He was a larger-than-life figure to me when I was a child. A booming voice, a commanding presence, a man who must be obeyed. I worshipped him and constantly tried to please him. This kind of adoration is often found in young girls. I followed him around, eager to help in any task he was doing, always ready to tag along when he went in to the office on Saturdays. He taught me many things, some good, of course…but he also taught me about fear and was probably my first introduction to the world of mistrust.
My father was an alcoholic. He was very intelligent and high functioning, to borrow a term from AA. In our home the bar, which sat heavy and foreboding in a corner of the den, was like an altar. Consistent as prayer, he visited it almost every night after returning from the office. Even as a child of four or five, I knew its importance in our home. You never knew who might emerge after my father consumed his first couple of gin martinis: a gregarious, laughing man who praised your post-dinner antics or a dark and brooding one whose voice could crack the rafters in our home and make a little girl want to disappear into some tiny space for doing exactly the same antics that had received praise the night before. To worship and fear someone at the same time makes for great confusion.
Add to the mix of alcoholism a volatile divorce that raged for years between my mother and him, spurned by his affair and subsequent marriage to another, and one has the recipe for a made-for-television-movie and layer upon layer of psychological detriment for a girl like me to wade through over the years. I was 13 when he left, and despite the strangeness of our relationship and the knot that perpetually lodged itself in my stomach when he was near, he was still my dad and his departure devastated the only world I had known.
I tried, I really did. For many years, once we reconnected when I was in college, I had a relationship with my father. Albeit one that was still skewed by suppressed emotions and alcohol, I did my best to be a good daughter and to have a man I could call “father” in my life. He did many fatherly things for me, too, like sending gifts on my birthday, being present at some of the major holidays, walking me down the aisle when I got married…helping me navigate the legal system when I got divorced. I admit that he did many things that demonstrate love, but for me there was still something missing, something hard to name and even harder to speak.
Ours was a relationship still founded on the power of my father, my perhaps childish fear of him and our inability to talk openly. Alcohol always sat between us, and next to it I suppose was the latent, unexpressed anger I still harbored toward him for leaving. Between those chasms sat volumes of words unsaid.
Growing up, years of therapy, struggles to find some way to forgive and forget did not relieve me of any of that burden. And so, five years ago, in a phone conversation that I still feel more than remember verbally, I asked my father for more. I asked him to try and bridge the gap I felt existed between us, to talk with me honestly about some of the pain I still felt, to put aside the gin when he was with me so we could have a conversation not affected by alcohol. I guess I asked for too much for his reply to me was that he was giving me all he was able to give. If it was not enough for me, then he was sorry, but it was my problem.
I had to make a decision about my life and what I wanted, so I separated from my father and had no interaction with him. For five plus years I have lived my life as if my father was already dead; however, in the back of my mind, I knew he still breathed and lived a quiet life in south Florida. I think, on some level, a part of me remained hopeful that we’d reconcile, that one day he’d say to me that a relationship with me was important to him, more important than drinking. I suppose that if I am totally honest with myself I really expected some form of apology from him. But that day and those words did not come and now he is gone. I am left to feel what I do, a blend of numbness and disconnect, tinged still with anger.
Two nights ago, a week after I heard the news of his death, I awoke around 3:00 am. My thoughts had been racing in my dreams; the figure of my father loomed large in my mind. I flipped through images from my childhood, trying to recall as many happy and positive times as I could, times when he showed love and caring, times not tainted by fear. I found a few and for some reason focused on the books he read to my sister and I when we were around seven and five, still sharing a room. My father would sit between our beds at night and read. He always picked grown-up children’s books, and I can see him holding Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland followed by Through the Looking Glass. The books were hard-bound, a soft-shade of blue and a dull red, respectively. In the darkness, a week after my father’s passing, thinking about those books and those two very young girls so eager to listen to their father’s voice, I felt myself feel and finally some tears came.
So perhaps I am not like Meursault, I am not a woman empty of emotion or unaffected by the death of a parent. I felt something, whether compassion for those two naïve girls, the softer, more loving side of my father or some amalgamation of emotions too complex to attempt to define, I experienced something and the tears that slid hotly down my face felt both horrible and beautiful. I wonder if they will come again and how this world, the one in which my father no longer resides, will unfold for me. Only time will tell, but I will continue to search for the positive memories and attempt to excavate and abandon the nuggets of anger still buried deep within me. I know this is the only path toward peace and acceptance for who he was, for who I am and for who I want to become.
Photo Credit
Sunset – Photo By Carole Poppleton-Schrading – All Rights Reserved
First Published At – Waggingmytale’s Blog
Guest Author Bio
Carole Poppleton-Schrading
Carole Poppleton-Schrading is a language arts teacher and lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and two SPCA-rescue cats. She is a visual artist, aspiring athlete and avid traveler who is always ready to add a stamp to her passport.
Blog / Website: http://waggingmytale.wordpress.com/
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This truly touched my soul, like I was reading something I had written about my own life. Thank you for these words, and thank you for clearing my cloudy mind.
Thank you for reading and leaving a comment, Jade. I’m happy something I wrote resonated with you. I wrote this piece years ago and now my father has been gone over 10 years … but I still, at times, grapple with these complex emotions and memories of my childhood.
I lost my father 8/27/2018. Your story spoke to me of my past. Like you, I so was hoping for more from my father. As in your experience, it did not happen and so two years before his death I chose to take a step back and try to heal my own fractures. I always hoped I’d get another chance but it was not to be.
Thank you for writing this.
Thank you for taking the time to read and comment. I hope you’ve been able to heal some of those fractures. Best, Carole
Hi, this is so well written. Thank you for sharing your story. It hit so hard because I have been through (almost) the same experience. My father was an incredibly intelligent man, who was a company manager by the time he was 25. He and my mum lived a life of luxury in comparison to most because he did so well. Not long after I was born he and my mum separated and he fled to America, we are UK based. It was a horrible time for my family as he started a new family in a forgein place. I didn’t see him again from 18 months until I was 15 years old. He became ill and was drinking more than the average, and needed the health care here. So he moved back. But he kept drinking and drinking, and didn’t stop. He lost every job he got. He became homeless. He was a wreck. It was killing him. But I was oblivious. He wasn’t part of my world, and my grandparents wouldn’t let it affect my upbringing. He died when I was 17 in 2015. We had just 2 years together, before I had to say goodbye. It kills me everyday that I never really got to know him. Everything I know of him and his good side is just stories told by my grandparents and mum’s good memories. Fortunately I have a decent family. But this is just a snapshot of his life. I could go on forever…
This is a beautifully written article and expresses so well so many of the things I am feeling or have felt. Both of my parents were alcoholics. My mother passed 6 1/2 years ago. She had taken care of my father until then but when she died, it fell to me. I have one sister but she was a drug addict and would not help. He died 2 days ago and today is his wake. I struggled very much to take care of him because of all of my anger and resentment. I did my best but still feel like it wasn’t good enough. The story of my life. I am hoping that with some help, in the future, I may be able to come to some peace with all of this. I really appreciate your eloquent words and the feeling that I am not alone in feeling this way. Thank you.
Jeannette,
Thank you for sharing you are a breve and courageous person who is standing at the beginning of a new chapter in your life.
You’ve been doing the right thing in a no win situation and that says a lot about your good character. What I’d like to impart to you is one of the most powerful points I learned about the difficult situation regarding the care of adults. The paradox is you are damed if you do, or damed if you don’t.
For us that help we may feel used but our charter is developed, and for those that do not help well theirs is the burden of guilt.
I admire your choice to remain in the family of Love. Peace be with you.
Thank you for sharing your story. My mother passed away after not speaking for 10 years. I had tried so many different things to make her realise how damaging her behaviour was. I would tell her that we could be friends and ask that she simply be there for her grandchildren. My father didn’t want us after the divorce, so that feeling of being rejected from both sides always taints things – that you feel at weddings or watching a movie – that gutteral sob that comes from your soul. I wrote a letter to her after her death – last night – my brother and sister in the States wrote her letters to be read to her in South Africa – forgiving her. I’m googling trying to find how to forgive. She doesn’t deserve it. Friends tell me I’ll be free if I do. I have an amazing life and will never be the person she was – but I don’t know if I can ever forgive. I have a full life, but I’ve lost her all over again – now she’s not around for me to be angry with. So many emotions …. thank you for sharing your story.
Thank you all for so much for sharing.
Paraphrasing; “I suppose if I am totally honest with myself I someday expected some form of apology, but he never came”.
Why is it so hard for humans to be humble?
6 Days before my adopting step father’s passing I visited him in the hospital, his arms bruised and as my girlfriend put it his body was already dead.
Thinking maybe there would be the heart-to-heart and peacemaking, my father stared at the TV frantically switching the channels watching his endless sports.
After a brief visit the last thing he said was “I have to go to sleep now” so I replied “I’ll see you back in Mendocino” (his hometown)
Over 60 days total in the hospital, so I couldn’t help but notice the phone next to his bed, The one he never picked up to call me because he was too busy watching sports.
Two weeks after his passing I feel depressed and very aware of my own mortality feeling the need to make life changes. Confusing to say the least as I had spent many of my earlier years wishing he would pass only to grow closer later in life. When at his house we talked and carried on well but when I left and the visit was over, the phone never rang.
Why is it so hard for humans to be humble?
I have longed for a mentor having never met my paternal father.
My dear girlfriend noted in the hospital Dad’s ego blew up in my presence ready to compete?!? While I waited like the 7 year old child that I was when we first met, waiting for the giant adult to say
“I’m dying and I love you”
Peace be with you all.
Thank you so much for sharing your story. Wow, I can definitely relate!
My relationship with my father was extremely difficult. We hadn’t spoken the last few years. He just passed away very suddenly a couple of days ago. He too drank himself to death after a 33-year battle with alcoholism.
I’m experiencing the same odd mixture of anger and numbness; sadness and relief that others have mentioned. As painful as it is, I also feel a sense of freedom that I can’t quite explain. The emotions seem to come in waves. For now, I’m just taking it one day at a time.
Thanks again for sharing your story.
Jill
Boy, can I so relate, Carole! My Dad too was a “larger-than-life” person in my world, and my hero in many ways. Although he had sobered up in his later years, I still sensed he would die fairly early, but like you, when I heard the news, I didn’t have a huge wave of emotions – more a mixed jumble of sensations and a numbness. The feelings would hit several weeks later.
It is amazing how alcoholism in a parent can complicate the parent/child relationship. I had some really great memories of my Dad before the drinking escalated, but then some really bad ones after his drinking got out of hand. Dealing with that wasn’t the path I would have chosen – but it was the one I was given, and I spent a lot of time coming to peace about that relationship.
Thanks for speaking about your experience so candidly and clearly, Carole! It certainly resonated with me!
Dan
Hi Dan,
Thanks for reading and replying to my essay. I agree that the emotions are jumbled and can hit at any time – sometimes the smallest thing (like a sappy TV commercial) will resonate with me and I feel tears prick my eyes. You are fortunate that your Dad was able to recognize and treat his illness, which hopefully helped you to make some more of those “good” memories.
Well-written and eloquent. Both of my parents were alcoholics and I am extremely grateful that I was actively involved in their lives at the time of their deaths. My mother had stopped drinking a couple of years before but never got any professional help for the issues surrounding that and remained an angry and difficult woman. My father literally drank himself to death. Being involved with them was difficult, emotionally exhausting, and in the case of my father I was also dealing with mental health professionals who accused me of enabling, as if the care I showed for a 75 year old man who had been through, and failed, two treatment programs made me culpable in his addiction. Through participation in my own 12-step program I find myself working with women who are adult children of alcoholics as well as alcoholics themselves and I cite my own experience as an example of how the strategy of maintaining as much of a relationship as the parent (or sibling, or child) is capable of, without trying to dictate the terms, may be the best thing for one’s own personal serenity.
Thanks for your reply, Martha. It sounds like you are doing very valuable work to help others struggling with this disease -and its far-reaching effects. I like your comment about accepting others without trying to dictate the terms. Perhaps I need to work on this more.