Letter to My Father in Spirit: Wasted Years, Regret, and Love
I thought I hated him. I was wrong.
Author’s photos: Left, Dad at the organ and piano approx 1970. Right, Christmas when I was about 5. I would appear to be singing or acting out a song while Dad played the guitar.
Hey “Little Harry,”
It’s me, your “favourite daughter.” Yeah, I know, I was your only one, but of course we weren’t very good at communication unless it involved humour. I mean, you even let me get away with that dopey moniker, teasing you about being a tad shorter than most men, and using an abbreviation of your first name, even though everyone called you by your last name. No one even knew your name was actually “Harold”, and you were never “Harry” to anyone — except me. I’m glad your nickname made you chuckle.
It was easy to communicate when I was little and adored you. I couldn’t wait for you to settle into your armchair and ask, “Wanna come and sit with me?” I couldn’t scramble onto your lap and cuddle up next to you fast enough. No other words required.
And I knew I was your “favourite daughter” with our shared love of music. You brought an organ and piano into the house when I was 4 and I was smitten. Eventually, spontaneous duets offered our deepest connection, “musical conversations,” as words just weren’t our thing.
I was your “favourite daughter” on those rare occasions you were home in time to tuck me in when I was little. You’d lay the palm of your hand against my tiny cheek and give me the warmest, most loving smile that I can still see all these years later. You’d say, “You know something?” and I’d say, “What?” knowing full well “what.”
You’d always reply, “I love you,” with all of your heart. You’ve been gone for 20 years, yet I can still hear your voice so clearly. Oh, how I wish you were…you could wipe away these tears as they trickle down my cheeks, the way you did now and then when life threw curve balls in my direction.
I sure didn’t deserve the title of “favourite daughter” during the Awful Years, though. The ones between my being a little girl when our lives blew up and it all went to hell, and my healing journey in which I finally understood that you had been acting out of your own pain and suffering.
Even when I hated you during those years, you loved me like there was no tomorrow. But I didn’t see it. Not until I’d hurt you plenty. Not until I understood. Not until I’d found my way to loving you again. Like I did when I was little and you were my hero.
But then, you’d always been my hero, even during the Awful Years. I didn’t see it while I was so busy hating you, hating your flaws and imperfections, too young and angry and hurt to see my own and forgive you yours.
All I saw was the blinding, fiery rage in your eyes that terrified me when alcohol seduced your bitter, angry demons into surfacing.
All I heard were your drunken fits of temper, waking me in the middle of night as you spewed your fury, slamming doors, pounding the table, Mom tearfully begging you to stop, stop, please stop! I would lie in my bed, my whole body shaking in fear until long after the house was frighteningly quiet, and I wondered if I would find one or both of you dead.
All I knew was that you worked sporadically at part-time evening work as an entertainer in nightclubs, the perfect environment for you to hide from yourself and drink away a lifetime of pain. Only I didn’t see your pain. I didn’t understand your own journey of hardship, loss, disappointment, and the horrors you saw in World War II. I didn’t realise that you were coping in the only way you knew. All I knew was I hated it. And you.
I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of that house and away from you, which I did at 16. But the Awful Years weren’t done with us yet, not by a long shot. They were just getting started. I would need to experience enough of my own trials and tribulations to seek therapy before I could begin to understand your demons. And to begin to see who you really were.
As I chipped away at that understanding, gradually kinder memories, long smothered by anger, quietly nudged their way to my consciousness. They didn’t emerge all at once; they took their time as did my healing journey. But as each one poked its way through the painful fog that had plagued me for decades, the picture of you and your love for me became ever clearer.
I was 12, running basketball relays in gym class when I slammed into Kathy Somebodyorother and knocked two of her molars loose with my forehead. Thanks to your evening job, you were home and able to collect me.
You weren’t one to bother with doctors but it wasn’t for a lack of concern. You checked on me and my giant goose egg frequently, turning a lamp on and off, on and off, watching my pupils in a well-intentioned effort to spot a head injury. You were so worried. Click, click, on off. Click, click, on off.
As you had always done when I was sick, you laid your palm against my cheek several times that day and offered your reassurance. “It’s okay.”
I was 13. In science class, we’d had several fertilised chicken eggs and opened them at various stages of development (horrible). We kept two to hatch and on the day the chicks began pecking their way out of their cramped quarters, Mrs. Hunter, the teacher, said they would go to the first person who could bring back a letter from home.
Because we lived seven houses away from the school, I burned home as soon as the lunch bell went, breathlessly asking to have the chicks and you said, “Sure.” I raced back to the school with my note and tracked down Mrs. Hunter, who was having lunch in the staff lounge.
The other kids were so mad when they returned for the afternoon, their notes in hand but I’d beaten them to it. Sadly, by the time the chicks were 3 weeks old, they were too big to live in the little pen I’d made under my desk. We found a farm for them. I made the lady promise not to eat them.
In the midst of the Awful Years, a summer day when I was 13 stands out as a precious gift. You taught me a few chords on your guitar. I wish I’d known it would be the only time. That guitar is all I have of you now, besides your wedding band. Oh, and a world of regret and if-onlys.
I was 15. It was one month before my 16th birthday. I came home from a date with my way-too-old-for-me-boyfriend. He was 21. You were waiting up, reading the paper when from across the room I showed you my brand new engagement ring. I didn’t say much but my defiant attitude was clear.
You didn’t say much either; it was 1.30 a.m. and you understood timing. But I saw your shock, which I’m sure I enjoyed (How on earth did you stand me?). And there was more in that look that I wouldn’t understand until I was a parent. Your crushing disappointment, your fear, and the idea that any dreams you might have had for me had just gone out the window. Did you have any dreams for me, Dad? Once in a while, you told me I was smart and could do anything (not that I believed you with Mom always telling me how stupid I was) but what did that mean? Did you really believe that?
If you did, oh, how I wish you’d have told me. Not just as a rare passing comment but how I wish you’d have said just once that I should go to university, that you’d encouraged conversation about what I might want to do with my life. Just once, Dad. Maybe I’d have found a dream for a decent future, and a way to hang on and not quit school and leave home at 16, despite all the abuse and unhappiness that lived there.
You were the least of it, but for all the abuse I endured from Mom, plus my hateful brother with his beatings and violations, I dumped all my anger onto you and your drinking. I even provoked you at times when you were drunk; I was looking for a fight. I thought it was because I hated you for drinking. I suspect it was because I hated you for not protecting me. I didn’t know it then; I only just thought of it now. And I’m oh, so sorry, Dad.
I was 17. Had to come home with the still-way-too-old-for-me-boyfriend (22) and tell you I was pregnant. We sat in the garden with you and Mom, agreeing to a speedy wedding. Mom was insulting and nasty — of course. You were kind and you smiled, that same sadness in your eyes that I’d seen on Engagement Ring Night. You said, “We’ll make it real nice” while Mom threw vicious barbs about me, and about my desire to wear a white dress.
I was 20. Divorced with a 2-year-old whose dad had moved away. I was so sick that Monday morning. Fever of 106°. I was sure I was going to die. You fought morning rush hour traffic, picked me up and took me to hospital. As always, you placed your palm against my cheek and said, “It’s okay.”
Two years later. Another unplanned pregnancy, only this time no dad in the picture. I moved into your basement. Mom harped at me about an abortion from the start but I wouldn’t do it. She made sure I knew what a massive waste of life I was — nothing new there. Every chance she got, a cheap shot here, a low blow there. Did I even know whose it was? Yes, you hateful cow.
When I was 7–1/2 months pregnant, I’d been out shopping for some baby things. When I got home, I was showing Mom the little bits I’d bought. And again, she laid into me. Everything from “You don’t have to sound so happy about it!” to “You should have had an abortion!”
Already on emotional overload, I burst into tears. Suddenly, you stormed into the kitchen where I was being verbally slaughtered. With your eyes flashing, you shouted at her. “Look! She’s having a baby! Now you can either make it better, or you can make it worse! What’s it gonna be?”
She shut up. She never said the horrible “A” word to me again.
There were so many more times than these when you’d been my hero, but I was too mired in my own misery to notice. I’m so grateful my healing journey finally led me back to you, to remembering that you’d always been there, always loved me, and that I loved you, too.
And even more than that, it was a journey that allowed us forgiveness on both sides, even though it was never spoken by either of us. But as my healing journey continued and my understanding of you changed, so, too, did my behaviour toward you. It opened the door to wordless healing between us, and one day there was a return to the impromptu duet, our first musical conversation in a very long time, with many more to follow. The Awful Years were behind us. We had made our peace, and enjoyed our time together until you were nearing the end of your life.
In those last 2 weeks, I needed to know your feelings and wishes about what lay ahead — during and after. You were weak; conversation was minimal, every word essential. We acknowledged that you were at the end of the road. I asked if you were afraid. “No,” you said, and smiled. I asked who you wanted to be present when that time came. “Just you,” you said.
You had always been my hero, there for me when the chips were down, when I needed you most. It was my turn to be your hero, to be with you at the end of your journey in this life and as you transitioned to the next one.
And when we knew that moment was fast approaching, I never left your side. In those last several hours, I sat on your bed and held your withered hand. I stroked your silky grey hair. You couldn’t speak but your eyes were bluer and clearer than ever, staring straight into my soul. You listened as I told our favourite dumb jokes one last time, and as I thanked you for loving me and always having been the best dad you could. You listened as I told you I loved you, and I know you’d have said it back if you’d been able.
You listened as I promised everyone would be fine and gave you permission to stop fighting. With my palm on your soft, cool cheek I said, “It’s okay,” choking on tears and desperate wishes about days long gone.
As the sun was coming up, you fell asleep. I crawled in next to you, lying with my head on your chest, noticing your breaths growing more shallow and infrequent for a couple of hours. And then it happened. The long exhale that seemed to go on for days, but of course it was only seconds. I knew. I knew that was the one.
I propped myself up on one elbow, staring at your chest, willing it to move, willing you to take one more breath. I stared into your face, your beautiful blue eyes closed for evermore, and I whispered, “Please! Please one more breath! Just a few more minutes! Not yet! Please!”
But there were no more breaths. And no more minutes.
It was my job to honour you by letting you go. It was time to say goodbye.
I’ve missed you so much, Little Harry. But I can still hear your voice and your laughter. And when I’m having a particularly rough moment with my struggles, I close my eyes and imagine you’re here, laying your palm against my cheek and saying, “It’s okay.”
I know you’re always near, Dad, but I don’t usually sense you in the same way that I’ve connected countless others with their loved ones in spirit. Today, though, you gave me such a beautiful gift.
While writing this letter to you, I remembered that lullaby you taught me to play when I was 13, the one your mother used to sing when you were a tiny tot. How awful it must have been to watch her die when you were just 12 years old. You loved her dearly. I know that lullaby meant the world to you. A powerful connection to your sweet mother’s love. And you shared it with me, creating an extra special powerful connection for us, too.
We played it together many times over the years. I even played it in church sometimes while I was the organist and choir director. This morning was the first time I’d thought of it in years. It had been so long, I couldn’t remember it. I searched my brain and drew a complete blank. I panicked, Dad. Panicked! I ran to my piano, desperate to remember but it had vanished. Couldn’t even find one note. No snippet. Nothing. It was gone.
I burst into tears. You never did tell me if there was a name for this lullaby and I’d never thought to ask. With no name, I couldn’t look it up. You’d given me something deeply meaningful to you. I was the guardian of something irreplaceable, one of your very most precious memories, and I’d let you down. I felt like I’d lost something so huge, there were no words for it. It was like losing you all over again, only worse, because I’d lost a priceless part of your history. A part of our history.
I sat at the piano, my face in my hands and crying. I whispered, “Please, please, please, Dad! Help me remember! Give me the song! Please! Give me the song!” And wham! Instantly, there it was. You heard me! You gave me the song and I played it through without even a slight hesitation.
Once again, you were my hero, coming through for me when I needed you, reassuring me that you’re still here, no matter the time or distance. Even between realms, we remain eternally connected by our loving musical conversation, as we will until we meet again.
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