Dear Dad
A letter I am sending out into the universe
Dad, it has been almost twenty years since you left this physical world, much too early at 67. My heart broke as your body slowly and then quickly changed until it decided to stop altogether. My grieving began a year before you died; I felt in my bones that there would be no other outcome than succumbing to that horrible disease.
I remember so vividly the weight of helplessness that hovered aimlessly around in my head, ever present as I went about my daily life. Unintentionally and mindlessly, my behavior was to carry that stiff upper lip while in public and most of the time in private. Denial.
The day after you died in early August 2006, I sat in my office at the college and cried a full-on emotional release. The fall semester had not started, so no one was around to catch me in this vulnerable state. Not that I cared, but my survival instincts needed me to be strong, whether I felt like it or not.
I never let on the intense emotional pain I had gone through before and after your death, not wanting to burden you or anyone else - that apple does not fall far from the tree. Besides, you had end-of-life concerns to deal with, and I couldn’t fathom what you must have been going through, seeing your life flash before your eyes. Were you reminiscing about your childhood on the farm, your high school basketball team, meeting mom, bringing home your newborns, or your first real job in the city? Or were you thinking about everything you needed to take care of so others would not be encumbered? Or was your mind slowly yielding to the concept of your life coming to a close?
As I ponder these questions now, a sense of regret begins to settle in. I would have liked to know, but then I also recognize that, at that time, I would have been unable to deal with the answers or any discussion of you no longer being physically present.
I know it was ’t your style to play the victim or complain. Throughout my childhood, and from my perspective, you never fully disclosed what was bothering you, always putting a positive spin on most situations and concerns. Which is a trait so many admired about you, including me.
I can’t help but wonder if you had been more forthcoming and vulnerable, maybe the internal strife slowly eating away at you could have been diminished. Sadly, societal expectations of men during your lifetime endorsed vulnerabilities as a clear sign of weakness, which unfortunately continues to mess with the minds and lives of so many males of all ages, which, of course, affects women.
Knowing you, you felt your vehicles of release were adequate: playing pinochle with the gang, drinking beer, working (which you enjoyed), and being with family and friends. However, the challenging issues, traumas, and worries we hold inside often manifest in illness. I admit to being angry with you for a while after your death because of what I saw and felt was a denial of the needs of your inner self.
You were a product of your generation and an upbringing that was challenging by 21st-century standards, living on a small farm in the middle of North Dakota with few prospects and parents who weathered the depression, the dirty thirties, farming failures, and ancestral trauma. Your biological father, an alcoholic, was never discussed by anyone during the time your mother was alive.
Although I do have a vague memory of when a man visited the farm when we were all there, probably in the late 1960s. He had on a cowboy hat and seemed larger than life. I remember little else about that day and nothing about the reaction of any family members. It’s a strange memory and may be inaccurate. After doing a little research, I found out that your biological father, Oscar, eventually moved from ND to California and that sometime in the 1970s, you received a notice of his death. At the time, I was unaware of who this person was and only pieced the puzzle together later in life.
In your fashion and with quiet persistence, you powered through your adopted father’s cultural expectations, stubborn Swedish heritage, and inability to show much emotion in his early days. You were not of his blood, and I’m not sure what role that played in your upbringing. He was a product of his time and cannot necessarily be at fault for the beliefs he held dear.
Because of your mother’s love and insight, she moved you to town to live with her sister, Mabel, so you could go to high school instead of stopping in the 8th grade to work on the farm, the destiny of many sons in rural North Dakota. You came from a generation whose parents and grandparents did not attend school beyond the 8th grade. I admire the tenacity of both you and Grandma Ruth.
Looking back on your life, it was good despite the obstacles you encountered as a young man. You found strength in your family and friends, treated people with respect, and received so much in return.
I desperately wish you could have been around to see how things panned out over the last 20 years. Many memorable times would have been even better with your participation, and some traumatic situations could have used your calming presence. When I moved out of state in 2015, and Mom was left standing on my soon-to-be former driveway all by herself, my heart sank to the level of when you had died in 2006. I wish you could have been there for her.
Even though your perspectives clashed, and there was a great deal of yelling throughout my childhood and young adulthood, Mom was never the same after you died. Her heart was broken, and there was nothing any of us could do to help ease that pain. She died without having resolved that grief enough to want to keep on living with the energy she had before you passed. I miss you both.
I am telling this story now because my perspective is shifting even faster than anticipated. Life is short, precious, precarious, and unpredictable, more so now than ever. Revealing our stories, all of our stories, can and will give credence to our humanity. A humanity that is being called into question and devalued. The powers that be are diminishing our roles in the overall health and well-being of the world. Don’t deny what has happened and what is happening. Through words and art, I will continue to express my journey - the good, the bad, and the distressing. I ask you to continue to tell yours.