As he lay dying, my father’s request that I wear my Air Force service dress uniform to his funeral was as close as he had ever come to saying he was proud of me.
I spent my childhood and most of my adult life believing he despised me because I never lived up to his idea of what a firstborn son should be. Nothing I did ever seemed good enough. His criticism had a hard edge—never intended to be constructive, always meant to demean, degrade, and humiliate.
He routinely told me I was “stupid” and “worthless.” Hearing his abusive tirades through young ears, I could not separate his frustration with a given situation from my culpability for having caused it.
My mother, ever his apologist, told me that he did not mean the cruel things he said, and despite not being able to express it, he truly loved me. Yet I always felt far more loathed than loved.
Now, as I stare at his rapidly deteriorating body, a million thoughts race through my mind as I contemplate what he might be thinking as I sit in vigil by his bedside. Did he still believe all those terrible things he said when I lived under his roof? Did he regret making me feel like I was responsible for the myriad of demons that haunted him?
Suddenly, I grew concerned that, given our difficult history, I might be unable to shed a tear when he passes. Should I at least try, for my sister's and my mother's sake, lest it reinforce their belief that I am cold and distant?
As I look at the myriad of tubes connected to him, I notice a small scrapbook tucked just under his blanket. I gently removed it and was shocked to see my officer photo on the cover with the bold caption, “My Beloved Son, the Air Force Officer.” I am immediately overwhelmed with both sadness and regret. His simple request that I wear my service dress uniform to his funeral was his way of demonstrating his pride in the man I’ve become.
A lifetime of resentment suddenly evaporated as I realized that his vulnerability in acknowledging love conflicted with the imagined hardness he thought necessary to becoming a man. As the morphine drip eases his departure, the last chance to hear him say he loves me slips away as well.
When he finally passed, I found my tears. Not for my sister. Not for my mother. But for the father-son relationship, that could have been but never was.
I spent my childhood and most of my adult life believing he despised me because I never lived up to his idea of what a firstborn son should be. Nothing I did ever seemed good enough. His criticism had a hard edge—never intended to be constructive, always meant to demean, degrade, and humiliate.
He routinely told me I was “stupid” and “worthless.” Hearing his abusive tirades through young ears, I could not separate his frustration with a given situation from my culpability for having caused it.
My mother, ever his apologist, told me that he did not mean the cruel things he said, and despite not being able to express it, he truly loved me. Yet I always felt far more loathed than loved.
Now, as I stare at his rapidly deteriorating body, a million thoughts race through my mind as I contemplate what he might be thinking as I sit in vigil by his bedside. Did he still believe all those terrible things he said when I lived under his roof? Did he regret making me feel like I was responsible for the myriad of demons that haunted him?
Suddenly, I grew concerned that, given our difficult history, I might be unable to shed a tear when he passes. Should I at least try, for my sister's and my mother's sake, lest it reinforce their belief that I am cold and distant?
As I look at the myriad of tubes connected to him, I notice a small scrapbook tucked just under his blanket. I gently removed it and was shocked to see my officer photo on the cover with the bold caption, “My Beloved Son, the Air Force Officer.” I am immediately overwhelmed with both sadness and regret. His simple request that I wear my service dress uniform to his funeral was his way of demonstrating his pride in the man I’ve become.
A lifetime of resentment suddenly evaporated as I realized that his vulnerability in acknowledging love conflicted with the imagined hardness he thought necessary to becoming a man. As the morphine drip eases his departure, the last chance to hear him say he loves me slips away as well.
When he finally passed, I found my tears. Not for my sister. Not for my mother. But for the father-son relationship, that could have been but never was.
