The Greatest Man I Never Knew
There was a song some years ago, more years than I care to remember, with the title "The Greatest Man I Never Knew". I connected strongly with the song when I heard it. The song tells of a man who works hard but has a hard time connecting to his family. I knew, and didn't know, that man. He was my own father.
My father died earlier this year after a long battle with cancer. He is now the greatest man I will never know. It is a strange feeling to close a door to a relationship that scarcely existed in the first place. I am sad for the loss of him, but perhaps even sadder for the loss of what might have been.
My father was a quiet man. He was never one for long, deep conversations, at least not that I ever saw. He communicated what was necessary. He held so much in. He grumbled under his breath. I can't tell you how he ever felt about most anything. Except I know he loved God, or at least he wanted to. And I know he loved his family, or at least he wanted to. He loved fishing, vintage cars, camping, yard sales and he knew the value of a hard day's work.
The pastor at his funeral was also one of my father's dear friends. He gave a very touching eulogy. A tribute to the man without fluff or filler. A very real picture of a person who was difficult much of the time, hard to know and hard to deal with. He acknowledged my father's prickly spirit without disparaging it, he made us laugh with stories of how he challenged my father's know-it-all nature and embarrassed him. I was thankful for someone who had loved him so well to speak his truth in a way that helped us all recall our love for him even better.
Afterward, I turned my feelings about that eulogy over in my mind. I found that I was jealous. Because the pastor? He knew my father. Really knew him in a way that I never had and never would. And a small part of me hated them both for that.
My parents divorced when I was 3. They lived a few hours apart and, though I did see my father at least a couple of times a year, I didn't spend much time with him until I went to live with him at age 15. It was then that I was searching for a different life and I found it there. His household was regulated like a well oiled machine. He worked every day and when he returned home his wife had his dinner on the table so that he walked in the front door and sat down at the table to eat. If the food suited him, he ate it. If it didn't, he might throw out an insult and push his plate away. To this day I swear I would have poisoned him had I been his wife.
But there, in the early 1990's, I found a place where life was predictable. We ate dinner together as a family. It was expected that if I wasn't at work I would be at home for dinner. It was expected that I go to school and go to work. I had a curfew which was relatively strict, unlike most of my friends. And the truth was, I liked these limits, at least somewhat. But I didn't grow closer to my father this way.
In addition to sharing more often in some of his worst traits, however, I also got to see more of some of his best traits. I got to hear him play guitar, something he only did when he felt happy. I got to see more of his silly side, something that was always there but didn't peek out as much as we all would have liked. He liked to laugh at truly silly, outlandish things. Leslie Nielsen movies. Christmas Vacation. Pink Panther.
Still, at that age I remained a self-involved teenager. As much as I was glad to live there, I was primarily interested in my social life. I spent too much time on the phone for his taste. I rejected his attempts to connect with me not deliberately, but because his attempts were often clumsy and I didn't understand what they were at the time. Only in hindsight can I see that when he asked me if I wanted to go to the garage with him (he owned a professional shop), it was because he knew no other way to bond. But I said no because I could think of nothing more boring than spending hours in a stinky garage and, frankly, my only experience in helping my father work on cars in any way was in the form of holding the light as he worked on his car and that had resulted in a fair amount of yelling on his part.
As the end of my high school years drew near, tensions in the family increased and I eventually moved out to live with a friend and her family until I left for college. I didn't see him again for several years after that. I am not proud of that fact, but it is the truth. His anger pushed me away. His need to criticize and hold everyone at arms length became more than I could bear. Even when my mother died, I requested that he not come to the funeral. I still hate my 19 year old self for that.
I have a letter he wrote me after that time. It is the closest I ever came to his heart. In it, he acknowledged that he wished he had let me know more often how much he loved me, how proud he was of me. It is the only time I ever saw a scratch in the surface of the man. We reconciled while I was still in my early 20's. We went on to have a long if not a close relationship.
So here was this pastor at his funeral, telling us how my father had spent many hours speaking with him, expressing his regret that he could never fully express his love for the people that meant the most to him. That even he himself did not understand why he was like this. Sharing his fear that he wouldn't get into Heaven because of the way he had treated people.
Meanwhile, here I was, thinking about how he had wasted the time he had at the end of his life. How he could have spent it with his sons going fishing. How he could have given his grandson his tools and truck. How he could have let the end of life soften him, forced himself to look right at it and allow it to melt his heart until he had to let it spill over, until he had to share his feelings and thoughts with us all.
Instead, in what I will always believe was the physical manifestation of his personality, he spent the last couple of years building a literal wall around himself. He sat on his couch in the living room behind a coffee table which he piled with all of the things he needed so that he barely ever had to move. Medical supplies and remote controls, pens and paper, blankets, pillows and snacks. And then he bought the biggest cat tower I have ever seen and put that in front of the coffee table. A fortress to hide behind. Those last couple of years, I never saw his smile. He became the angriest, most closed off version of himself. I did what I could to try and communicate my love, but part of me always remained a little girl around my father, too afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing and angering him. I made myself say things that were hard, begged him to take an anti-depressant, gave him permission to stop going to doctors, but it is hard to connect to someone who barely speaks, barely reacts to you. And so that is how it ended with us.
On my final visit, he lay in a hospital bed starving himself to death. I talked mostly to his wife and he periodically grunted his disapproval at her talking (she bore the brunt of his anger in those final years; perhaps always, but especially then). Before I left the house I begged him to not lay there in pain but to please ask the nurses for medicine if he needed it. I told him I loved him. I held his hand.
When I got home that night, I told my husband I would be surprised if dad lasted another month. He died just a few days later. I am told by my step mother and the pastor, both of whom were at his bedside, that he seemed finally to make peace in his last moments, perhaps with his fate, perhaps with himself, perhaps with this life. I am sorry I didn't get to see that.
I didn't cry when I heard he had died. I was in a meeting and when my brother called I knew this must be why. But I also knew that my father was, by this point, more than ready to die. I had seen many deaths in my years as a social worker and I was glad for him that his suffering was over.
Later, at the funeral, I did cry. I cried for what I had lost. Both the man I loved and the man I never even knew. Ultimately, I am so glad my father had his friend and pastor to share himself with. I am sorry it couldn't have been with his family, but I am glad it could be with someone. And I am grateful that the pastor shared with us some of what troubled my father. In so many ways, he was a good man. He gave to family when he could. He worked hard. He kept up his home. But perhaps a gift he did give me is the ability to see him more fully for all of his faults. Unlike many who die and have all of their faults glossed over until they are barely visible, his are still very visible to me. They remind me that the world is all shades of gray, not black and white. People are not good and bad, they are both good AND bad. They are both lovable AND totally unlikable.
In the end, and on my best days in life, I believe he did his best. I like to believe that everyone is doing their best. It allows me to have compassion which softens my hard edges. Because if I'm being honest, I see him in myself. I can be withholding and hard. I can be judgmental if I am not careful. I can be quick to anger and slow to cool. But I'm doing my best to push those tendencies away. I am also quick to say sorry. I am quick to say I love you (I smother my children in it). I try, on my best days, to remember his example and share myself with my family so that I will not become someone they don't know.
I loved him. I still do. I am grateful for his example, though I am sorry he had to give it by showing me how NOT to share a life. He was a good man. He was hard man. And I wish I knew him better.
My father died earlier this year after a long battle with cancer. He is now the greatest man I will never know. It is a strange feeling to close a door to a relationship that scarcely existed in the first place. I am sad for the loss of him, but perhaps even sadder for the loss of what might have been.
My father was a quiet man. He was never one for long, deep conversations, at least not that I ever saw. He communicated what was necessary. He held so much in. He grumbled under his breath. I can't tell you how he ever felt about most anything. Except I know he loved God, or at least he wanted to. And I know he loved his family, or at least he wanted to. He loved fishing, vintage cars, camping, yard sales and he knew the value of a hard day's work.
The pastor at his funeral was also one of my father's dear friends. He gave a very touching eulogy. A tribute to the man without fluff or filler. A very real picture of a person who was difficult much of the time, hard to know and hard to deal with. He acknowledged my father's prickly spirit without disparaging it, he made us laugh with stories of how he challenged my father's know-it-all nature and embarrassed him. I was thankful for someone who had loved him so well to speak his truth in a way that helped us all recall our love for him even better.
Afterward, I turned my feelings about that eulogy over in my mind. I found that I was jealous. Because the pastor? He knew my father. Really knew him in a way that I never had and never would. And a small part of me hated them both for that.
My parents divorced when I was 3. They lived a few hours apart and, though I did see my father at least a couple of times a year, I didn't spend much time with him until I went to live with him at age 15. It was then that I was searching for a different life and I found it there. His household was regulated like a well oiled machine. He worked every day and when he returned home his wife had his dinner on the table so that he walked in the front door and sat down at the table to eat. If the food suited him, he ate it. If it didn't, he might throw out an insult and push his plate away. To this day I swear I would have poisoned him had I been his wife.
But there, in the early 1990's, I found a place where life was predictable. We ate dinner together as a family. It was expected that if I wasn't at work I would be at home for dinner. It was expected that I go to school and go to work. I had a curfew which was relatively strict, unlike most of my friends. And the truth was, I liked these limits, at least somewhat. But I didn't grow closer to my father this way.
In addition to sharing more often in some of his worst traits, however, I also got to see more of some of his best traits. I got to hear him play guitar, something he only did when he felt happy. I got to see more of his silly side, something that was always there but didn't peek out as much as we all would have liked. He liked to laugh at truly silly, outlandish things. Leslie Nielsen movies. Christmas Vacation. Pink Panther.
Still, at that age I remained a self-involved teenager. As much as I was glad to live there, I was primarily interested in my social life. I spent too much time on the phone for his taste. I rejected his attempts to connect with me not deliberately, but because his attempts were often clumsy and I didn't understand what they were at the time. Only in hindsight can I see that when he asked me if I wanted to go to the garage with him (he owned a professional shop), it was because he knew no other way to bond. But I said no because I could think of nothing more boring than spending hours in a stinky garage and, frankly, my only experience in helping my father work on cars in any way was in the form of holding the light as he worked on his car and that had resulted in a fair amount of yelling on his part.
As the end of my high school years drew near, tensions in the family increased and I eventually moved out to live with a friend and her family until I left for college. I didn't see him again for several years after that. I am not proud of that fact, but it is the truth. His anger pushed me away. His need to criticize and hold everyone at arms length became more than I could bear. Even when my mother died, I requested that he not come to the funeral. I still hate my 19 year old self for that.
I have a letter he wrote me after that time. It is the closest I ever came to his heart. In it, he acknowledged that he wished he had let me know more often how much he loved me, how proud he was of me. It is the only time I ever saw a scratch in the surface of the man. We reconciled while I was still in my early 20's. We went on to have a long if not a close relationship.
So here was this pastor at his funeral, telling us how my father had spent many hours speaking with him, expressing his regret that he could never fully express his love for the people that meant the most to him. That even he himself did not understand why he was like this. Sharing his fear that he wouldn't get into Heaven because of the way he had treated people.
Meanwhile, here I was, thinking about how he had wasted the time he had at the end of his life. How he could have spent it with his sons going fishing. How he could have given his grandson his tools and truck. How he could have let the end of life soften him, forced himself to look right at it and allow it to melt his heart until he had to let it spill over, until he had to share his feelings and thoughts with us all.
Instead, in what I will always believe was the physical manifestation of his personality, he spent the last couple of years building a literal wall around himself. He sat on his couch in the living room behind a coffee table which he piled with all of the things he needed so that he barely ever had to move. Medical supplies and remote controls, pens and paper, blankets, pillows and snacks. And then he bought the biggest cat tower I have ever seen and put that in front of the coffee table. A fortress to hide behind. Those last couple of years, I never saw his smile. He became the angriest, most closed off version of himself. I did what I could to try and communicate my love, but part of me always remained a little girl around my father, too afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing and angering him. I made myself say things that were hard, begged him to take an anti-depressant, gave him permission to stop going to doctors, but it is hard to connect to someone who barely speaks, barely reacts to you. And so that is how it ended with us.
On my final visit, he lay in a hospital bed starving himself to death. I talked mostly to his wife and he periodically grunted his disapproval at her talking (she bore the brunt of his anger in those final years; perhaps always, but especially then). Before I left the house I begged him to not lay there in pain but to please ask the nurses for medicine if he needed it. I told him I loved him. I held his hand.
When I got home that night, I told my husband I would be surprised if dad lasted another month. He died just a few days later. I am told by my step mother and the pastor, both of whom were at his bedside, that he seemed finally to make peace in his last moments, perhaps with his fate, perhaps with himself, perhaps with this life. I am sorry I didn't get to see that.
I didn't cry when I heard he had died. I was in a meeting and when my brother called I knew this must be why. But I also knew that my father was, by this point, more than ready to die. I had seen many deaths in my years as a social worker and I was glad for him that his suffering was over.
Later, at the funeral, I did cry. I cried for what I had lost. Both the man I loved and the man I never even knew. Ultimately, I am so glad my father had his friend and pastor to share himself with. I am sorry it couldn't have been with his family, but I am glad it could be with someone. And I am grateful that the pastor shared with us some of what troubled my father. In so many ways, he was a good man. He gave to family when he could. He worked hard. He kept up his home. But perhaps a gift he did give me is the ability to see him more fully for all of his faults. Unlike many who die and have all of their faults glossed over until they are barely visible, his are still very visible to me. They remind me that the world is all shades of gray, not black and white. People are not good and bad, they are both good AND bad. They are both lovable AND totally unlikable.
In the end, and on my best days in life, I believe he did his best. I like to believe that everyone is doing their best. It allows me to have compassion which softens my hard edges. Because if I'm being honest, I see him in myself. I can be withholding and hard. I can be judgmental if I am not careful. I can be quick to anger and slow to cool. But I'm doing my best to push those tendencies away. I am also quick to say sorry. I am quick to say I love you (I smother my children in it). I try, on my best days, to remember his example and share myself with my family so that I will not become someone they don't know.
I loved him. I still do. I am grateful for his example, though I am sorry he had to give it by showing me how NOT to share a life. He was a good man. He was hard man. And I wish I knew him better.
Comments
Post a Comment
Every comment is practically perfect in every way!