My Dad - Why I Said, "I Love You", First
As this Father’s Day approaches, I have been thinking about
my dad. He is 84 and because the past six months have been rough on his health,
this Father’s Day seems extra meaningful. Living over 700 miles apart, we stay
connected almost daily through emails and weekly phone calls. Our relationship over the past 30 years has
evolved into one of mutual love, respect, and admiration. Aside from my husband
and daughter, I am more authentic with my dad than anyone else. As a child, I
never thought this could have happened. It is all because I said, “I love you’, first.
Growing up in a family of four sisters in the 50’s and 60’s,
with young parents doing all that they could to keep ‘food on the table’ and ‘clothes
on our backs’, I felt rather invisible. As the second daughter, I was the
typical people-pleaser and peace-maker in a sometimes conflicted and chaotic
household. My dad worked hard as a music teacher while taking on other related
jobs to bring in additional income: teaching private lessons, playing ‘gigs’
with various swing and jazz bands, and composing or arranging pieces for an
established publisher. My mom put in long hours at a local hospital after
becoming a registered nurse. Their absence in my life and my sisters’ was
deeply felt.
All throughout those formative years, I did not feel close
to my dad. In fact, I often felt like a stranger in our own house. I didn’t
feel wanted and I didn’t feel like I was ever good enough. It wasn’t so much
what was said as what wasn’t said. With years invested into academic and musical
achievement, I desperately craved his affirmation, approval, and even acknowledgement.
None was given. As a shy, introverted, and extremely
sensitive young girl, I wanted my dad’s support, nurturing, and compassion. I
remember only criticism, condemnation, and a cold distance between us. Although
there were sporadic moments of laughter and mutual teasing in our family, love
was not physically shown nor was it spoken. By the time I left for college, I
was deeply angry at him and was determined to stay as far away emotionally and physically
as possible. For nearly a dozen years, I did just that.
In my late twenties, I moved back to my hometown after
accepting a much needed teaching job. For several years, I lived nearby my
parents. However, I maintained an emotional distance, especially with my dad.
My childhood wound of anger festered within me and it grew into a resentment
that filled my being. I didn’t expect anything to change. I didn’t expect my
dad to change. And, I certainly wasn’t going to make any motions at improving
our dynamic! After all, I owed my dad nothing. He owed me!
Several years passed. I met and married my husband, Dan. One night after dinner and after one of our
many tear-filled conversations about my dad, Dan made a crazy suggestion.
Because Dan knew how much I wanted and needed my dad’s love, he challenged me
to tell my dad I loved him, first! I
thought Dan was nuts! A healthy
discussion ensued that lasted several days, possibly even weeks. And after an
incredible amount of soul searching as well as realizing I had nothing to lose,
a plan was devised and put into action.
After finishing a Sunday evening dinner at my parent’s
house, Dan and I helped clean and then gathered up our belongings. I said a quick
goodbye to my mom while following Dan to the front door. My dad was right
behind me. Dan stepped onto the front porch and squeezed my hand, giving me the
reassurance I needed. Turning to face my dad and say my goodbye, I put one hand
on each of his arms, looked him straight in his eyes, and with my voice and
body quivering, I shakily and softly spoke, “I love you."
Without knowing what to do next, I witnessed my dad slump to
the side, catching his weight against the baby grand piano that was nestled
against the wall next to the front door. He face was drained of all color; he
was speechless; he looked paralyzed. My eyes were filling with hot tears and I
too felt weak. I turned quickly, closed the door behind me, and ran to the car.
Dan grabbed me and held me tight. He whispered, “You did good. You won’t regret
this…I promise you."
Over the next weeks and months, every time I talked with my
dad, either in person or on the phone, I always ended the conversation with, ‘I
love you’. The silences on his end became less pregnant, and I, to my amazement,
began to heal. The infectious wound of
anger within was cauterized by the first searing incision of ‘I love you’ and
with each voicing came the additional removal of years of hurt and pain. By the
passing of eight months, I felt like a different person – whole and happy. It
no longer mattered to me what my dad said or didn’t say. I had given myself the
gift I needed – when I said I loved him, I let go of all that had wronged me.
When I said I loved him, I made it right for me. And yet sadly, a part of me
wished of my dad that he would be able to do the same for himself.
A few days later, I was talking with my dad on the phone,
arranging a pick up time from school for my daughter. Before I hung up, I concluded
with my usual, “I love you, Dad.” And without hesitation, but with such speed
that I almost missed it, my dad brusquely added, “I love you too, sweets”, and
then he immediately hung up! I stood still in the kitchen but everything seemed
to be swirling around me. I felt dizzy- almost faint – just like he had. I
called to Dan and he came running! I shouted, “He did it – my dad said it – he told
me – I love you”. Dan held me in his arms, saying nothing. My body relaxed and
my mind calmed as I absorbed the magnitude of it all. Our relationship would
never be the same.
Almost 30 years exactly have passed since my dad and I began
our mutual exchange of love. It would
take pages and pages to share all that has happened – all that has healed and
grown. It is enough to say as this
Father’s Day approaches that I have no regrets with my dad. I am at peace with
him as he is with me. I am so blessed and thankful that I said, ”I love you”,
first.
Spring 2012 - My dad working his crossword puzzle out in our backyard... |
Comments
Post a Comment