A progenitor. That is what we called him. Not dad or daddy or even father. It was, among other things, something I regret.
Four years ago today I got the call. It was the type of phone call only understood by those who've received one. 1am. The blinds filtered in slivered streetlight, battling to make up for what darkness had suffocated. The shrill of the ring sliced the stillness. I fumbled for the phone from my makeshift bed on the couch. In my ninth month of pregnancy, it was the only place that offered a few minutes of comfort in between the routine bathroom breaks and jarring rib kicks.
When I heard my stepmom's voice on the other end of the line, I did not panic. I wrongly assumed she had forgotten the time difference and had called to see if the much anticipated first grandchild was any closer to making her appearance—I was after all due in 3 days. But then I heard the pain in her voice and I understood. I exhaled and my world shifted.
I remember her exact words, but I do not remember mine. I felt connected to the conversation but had little control over what my body, my voice was doing. I was wailing, a guttural howl I couldn't stop. The voice I could not control woke my husband. He took the phone from me and gathered the details. A motorcycle accident. An instant death. He felt no pain. That was of little comfort to me. Pain or no, the end result was the same.
The grandchild that he was so eager to meet, the little one that would mend the years of a tumultuous father/daughter relationship, the baby that was supposed to fix everything was furiously kicking. She could sense my anguish and the contractions began.
Before I called my doctor, I called my mother. I could not tell if the sorrow in her voice was because of the love she once had for the man who had fathered three of her daughters, or if it was because she could not stop the ache those daughters were now experiencing.
My older sister would not answer her phone. By this time she had taken into account the 6 messages and 20+ missed calls and was choosing not to respond. It was her way of avoiding the reality of the situation. My younger sister was serving a mission in Argentina. The process of locating her and delivering the news had started, but it would be hours before her grief began.
My husband and I sat silently on our living room couch. Unsure of how to navigate fresh grief, he held me, waiting for me to speak, as tears made dizzying lines down my face. I did not. Words had made the situation real, so I needed my space from them. The silence ushered in the sun as labor pains mingled with heartache, and we made our way to the hospital. Although the contractions were severe, it would be 3 weeks before Cora would enter the world. Doctor's orders and taunting contractions would prevent me from traveling to attend the funeral. I could not comprehend the timing of his death.
If I had attended the funeral, I would not have said the typical things a grieving daughter says. I would not have said he was kind to everyone he encountered, that he was the perfect father or that he lived an exemplary life. Those things did not describe my father. This is what I would have said:
My father seemed untouchable. He lived large. He had big dreams. He was brilliant. He was an amazing writer, singer, musician. He was extremely ambitious. He was driven. He knew important people and held important jobs, we were not those people and fathering was not among those jobs. He was many great and wonderful things, but he was not perfect. He was flawed. He was forever restless. He was extremely stubborn. He made promises he could not keep. He was never content.
In his imperfection, I learned to be okay with making mistakes. Of all of the things learned from my father, that is what I am most grateful for. I took more risks because of that, I feared less because of that, and I have lived a fuller life because of that.
Four years ago today I got the call. It was the type of phone call only understood by those who've received one. 1am. The blinds filtered in slivered streetlight, battling to make up for what darkness had suffocated. The shrill of the ring sliced the stillness. I fumbled for the phone from my makeshift bed on the couch. In my ninth month of pregnancy, it was the only place that offered a few minutes of comfort in between the routine bathroom breaks and jarring rib kicks.
When I heard my stepmom's voice on the other end of the line, I did not panic. I wrongly assumed she had forgotten the time difference and had called to see if the much anticipated first grandchild was any closer to making her appearance—I was after all due in 3 days. But then I heard the pain in her voice and I understood. I exhaled and my world shifted.
I remember her exact words, but I do not remember mine. I felt connected to the conversation but had little control over what my body, my voice was doing. I was wailing, a guttural howl I couldn't stop. The voice I could not control woke my husband. He took the phone from me and gathered the details. A motorcycle accident. An instant death. He felt no pain. That was of little comfort to me. Pain or no, the end result was the same.
The grandchild that he was so eager to meet, the little one that would mend the years of a tumultuous father/daughter relationship, the baby that was supposed to fix everything was furiously kicking. She could sense my anguish and the contractions began.
Before I called my doctor, I called my mother. I could not tell if the sorrow in her voice was because of the love she once had for the man who had fathered three of her daughters, or if it was because she could not stop the ache those daughters were now experiencing.
My older sister would not answer her phone. By this time she had taken into account the 6 messages and 20+ missed calls and was choosing not to respond. It was her way of avoiding the reality of the situation. My younger sister was serving a mission in Argentina. The process of locating her and delivering the news had started, but it would be hours before her grief began.
My husband and I sat silently on our living room couch. Unsure of how to navigate fresh grief, he held me, waiting for me to speak, as tears made dizzying lines down my face. I did not. Words had made the situation real, so I needed my space from them. The silence ushered in the sun as labor pains mingled with heartache, and we made our way to the hospital. Although the contractions were severe, it would be 3 weeks before Cora would enter the world. Doctor's orders and taunting contractions would prevent me from traveling to attend the funeral. I could not comprehend the timing of his death.
If I had attended the funeral, I would not have said the typical things a grieving daughter says. I would not have said he was kind to everyone he encountered, that he was the perfect father or that he lived an exemplary life. Those things did not describe my father. This is what I would have said:
My father seemed untouchable. He lived large. He had big dreams. He was brilliant. He was an amazing writer, singer, musician. He was extremely ambitious. He was driven. He knew important people and held important jobs, we were not those people and fathering was not among those jobs. He was many great and wonderful things, but he was not perfect. He was flawed. He was forever restless. He was extremely stubborn. He made promises he could not keep. He was never content.
In his imperfection, I learned to be okay with making mistakes. Of all of the things learned from my father, that is what I am most grateful for. I took more risks because of that, I feared less because of that, and I have lived a fuller life because of that.
He did too. His life may have been cut short, but it was full. That was what I whispered to the fresh baby as rocked her and muffled my grief through tales of the grandfather she would never meet.
8 comments:
Amber, thank you for writing a thought provoking post. I enjoyed reading your "ode to life" on your dad, a man I don't think we ever discussed much. I love that you write more about life in general on your blog and not just the nuances of your daily life. Its a great idea. I've wanted to do more on my blog than just what happens in my life. Reading your blog helps me understand why I absolutely loved having you as my roommate. I'm realizing now how much I could talk to you about ANYTHING! So, as for the good ole days. . . they were good.
Love ya!
Debbie
You are a blessing, Amber.
I remember how I felt when I heard the news about your Dad. I even wrote an email to Desi about it last week. I was in Ogden, sitting in my basement with the lights off, reading an email from Desi. I just went back and re-read it in fact. I cried years ago, I cried last week, and I cried again tonight. I never knew him, but I know Desi, and I've met you and your older sister and Mom, and I'm sorry you've had to experience his death so early in life.
I have never received one of those phone calls so I can only image what you went through or what you are still going through. You are so strong but my heart was breaking for you as I read this.
Wow...thanks for sharing...I can not comprehend.
Oh Amber. I love you. Saying something profound is not my thing, so I'll leave it at that.
Wow, that was weird. I woke up this morning thinking about how you had mentioned a few months ago that your Dad passed away a couple years ago, and wondering how and why. Then I open your blog and it's right there in front of me! I can't imagine going through something like that. I especially can't imagine going through something like that AND making it sound so eloquent! You're amazing. I've been pondering fatherhood a LOT this last week (maybe that's why your dad was on my mind this morning), because our best friend just lost his dad last week very suddenly and unexpectedly. We went to the funeral, and afterward as we drove to have lunch, my husband quickly made phone calls canceling all our weekend plans and we went to see my dad instead. He called his dad as well. Funerals are all about prioritizing life. Thanks for sharing your journey through the loss of your father. Someday, when my turn comes, I hope to be as life-lesson-learned as you.
Amber, thanks for sharing this.
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