I was never comfortable in the same room with my father. In middle school, during my first major depressive dip, he called me fat and lazy and said repeatedly, with authority, that I would have to be a teacher because I was not smart or industrious enough to be a journalist. He should know because he knew everything. If only he had uttered one kind word to make me feel seen, better, loved. Instead, he doused my dreams at every turn. When I got older and spent time with him out of some futile sense of obligation, I couldn’t wait to leave.
When dad's denouement was upon us, he laid in bed, day after day. He could no longer walk, go to the bathroom, eat or swallow. He could listen to talk radio. That was his final act, the only thing his Parkinson's permitted. I was appalled at the sight of this previously larger-then-life man, diminished to passive listener. He went from meeting presidents to being fed through a tube, while listening to the radio. His gaze was indirect; he was already gone from our world, but he didn't want to leave altogether. Visiting him in the hospital during his final days was not unlike visiting a complete stranger. Who was this man? He'd been on the planet 77 years and I hardly knew him. We were so different. He held onto every last breath before finally succumbing in a hospital bed, alone. Pneumonia got him in the end. I’d like to say I grieved for my father, but there was no relationship to grieve, no love lost. He was a superb business man, and a terrible father. Narcissistic, egocentric and always right, he had countless ways to make this only daughter feel unworthy and invisible. For these and countless other reasons, I wasn't able to empathize with my father's old-age agony—until I got Parkinson’s. I’ve been in physical and emotional pain most of my life. As death draws closer with each passing day (dramatic, but true), I should hope I would have the choice to be pain-free, relieved. That hope is at cross-purposes, however, with my reality. I am a recovering drug addict and alcoholic. My bouts of depression have lasted years. I’ve always thought I’d hang around to see how it ends. Some days, it feels like I am in too much pain to see it through. My father would not approve of that attitude. I still hear him--No throwing in the towel! Buck up! Handle it! If I had a chance to have one more conversation with him, I would want him to know that I tried. I wanted to be somebody. Somebody successful. Somebody loved by her father. That was not meant to be. I'd remind him that if children don't feel important to their parents, it is impossible for them to feel important in the world. I know how that conversation would end, though. He would disregard my words, talk over me and remind me that father knows best.
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