Part three. He’s not there..

Part three

In 2006 my dad and I finally landed on common ground. I loved politics and he loved politics.

Now, I’d been raised Republican. Not because of some bullshit pretense that Republicans are the “Christian” party but because my grandparents were wealthy, therefore they voted Republican and because of that, so did we.

I had zero idea what that meant when I was little and poor. We vote like rich people because someday we might be rich? ( For the record, I figured that out at eight. I know grown ass adults that vote against their own best interest in case the somehow, someway, become millionaires and when they do they don’t want that 2% extra tax, or whatever the case may be, because they want that money and they don’t want it to go to..... Right! Ding ding, the people they are now..... )off the soapbox

But when I got to being able to add two and two politically speaking, I didn’t like the so called Christian party and their every man for themselves political stance. It just didn’t feel much like Jesus, you know? I kind of liked helping our neighbors in tough times, taking care of our water supply, keeping the air clean type of shit that felt like voting in the best interest of myself and my child....

Come to find out, my dad has had the same epiphany. When the least among us rise, we all rise. 

So we spent hours talking politics which led to many deep conversations and when he’d come visit I’d feel comfortable enough to say things like... “ You were a shitty parent and between you and my bio father, every bad choice I ever made in a man was choosing the ones that would never choose me... Like... My Fathers.... “ see how these things play out?

And he’d say... “I was shit. I do take the blame and responsibility and all the hurt and anger you have because of it” And we had that conversation in different forms as many times as I needed to until I didn’t need to anymore and he allowed that without anger or annoyance but with grace and love.

When I told him about my mother he was furious and in pain. He told me that he wanted to kill her... but, you know, she was dead... but the protective father with the red face and tears in his eyes was something I’d never had before.

Just before my mom died her and I were at a crossroad in our relationship. I was leaving Washington and her mental illness was at its peak. She was vile and mean and lashing out at me. I called my dad and said... “ I wish she’d die”

She did four days later. The first thing my dad did was say... “Listen, an abused is an abuser whether it’s a stranger or your mother and there’s nothing wrong with wishing the person who beats you dead. You never have to feel guilty about wishing to be free from abuse. She is not now nor ever will be a saint and don’t you let your temporary guilt turn her into something she was not and she was not the mother you deserved or even the human you should have had to raise you”

And my life changed. I let go of the guilt and instead embraced that I’d been able to say what I’d needed to say to her and left it all on the field. No regrets or I wish I’d said....

We talked about religion and medicine and politics and sports and my kids and he told me all the time how proud he was of me as a human and a daughter and he thought I was brilliant and insightful and funny and exceptional. He thought my children were masterpieces and he was so very proud.

He listened to me when I’d be in the valley of depression and rather than tell me to get sleep or shake it off or tomorrow is a better day he’d say “ oh , honey, stay strong. We need you”

A few years ago he began to say I love you every time we hung up or every time he left a voice message. 

The last time he was here I had this nagging feeling. He was here to watch the boy in a National Tournament. So proud. We stayed in a lovely hotel with a quiet and beautiful bar with a view of downtown Dallas. I asked if after dinner I could ask him questions about his life. Where was he born? Go to high school? First girlfriend? Tell me how to piece the memories I have from childhood. Mom miscarried on the bathroom floor? Why did I stay with strangers sometimes? With your sisters too? Who was the strange man with mom who gave me the money for the ice cream truck? 

She had affairs

Kept trying to kill her self

And the puzzle started to become clearer. Caught her with the guy she married after my dad. That was why he left.

And with the twinkling of the city lights I got to know the things about him that I’d never asked. I got to know him. I knew I’d never see him again. I stared for long periods of time to engrave his face into my brain. I’ve saved ever voicemail for two years. “Love ya, Honey”

I lost my dad. I had a dad. A dad who was proud of me. A dad who was protective of me. A dad who loved me.

I lost my sparing partner. My world problems solver. Someone I could go to when I was mad or happy or worried or sad.

I want to call him now to tell him how sad I am. So deeply sad and lonely.

But he’s not there.