The Power of Making Peace
My last conversation with my Father
There are no good parts to the Covid 19 illness which has taken the lives of too many. My Father at 83 was among them. I saw first hand what this disease did to a non-smoking relatively healthy human being of a man in his 80’s. However, this is not a story about this insidious-merciless disease. What Covid 19 did for me was that it forced me to have a last conversation with a man that was very complicated for whom otherwise I would still may not have been speaking with.
Maybe I knew that someday (if I had heard he was ill) that it would have prompted me to contact him one last time. All I ever wanted was for him to admit the things he wronged others with and surrender to God before he passed. The time that had elapsed between conversations was about a year. He had tried a few times to contact me leaving two voice mail messages and sending me (what turned out to be) one last Birthday card. A card I kept but did not open until he passed. I am glad I saved it.
My Father’s crimes were a culmination of years of undiagnosed ‘something’ which spawned some really unpleasant verbal tirades at my Mother (God rest her soul), my older Sister, older Brother and myself. The reason why we never knew what he was suffering from was because he never went to a doctor to find out. Even after my Mother died in 1994 and when he married his second wife he just repeated the same bad behavior for another 20 years. The sad part is that he didn’t have to suffer from any disorder if he had just been diagnosed and treated properly.
My deep seeded yearning was for me and my Dad to be best friends as adults. I can say with great honesty that as a child I was able to rely on him as a stable male figure in my life who provided comfort and I pretty good middle class life. We went on vacation every year we played “catch” anytime I wanted and he took me and my brother to Yankees games. On vacation is where he would escape and become a truly happy person. Unfortunately, when we got home after a week of bliss in the New Hampshire mountains he returned to what seemed to be a depressed human being. Hating his job feeling helpless that he was the bread winner even though he never wanted my Mother to work. She was always willing to be more than a housewife and Mother but he would not allow her to have a job outside the home. This was the 1970’s and male pride was in full bloom.
Adulthood for the three of us seemed to be my Father’s greatest failure as a parent. That transition from helping us at every turn as children to allowing us to make our own decisions and mistakes was when he really unraveled. He wanted to control every move and could not handle the fact that we were growing up. He was losing control and that was something he hated the most. My Mother battled him constantly to allow us to grow as adults and celebrate our independence. He just couldn’t handle it. He would then in turn take his frustrations out on my Mother with verbal tirades and extra control on her.
Sometimes the “white picket fence” doesn’t tell the whole story. It holds in the secrets of what looks like perfection on the outside tightly inside. I believe my Dad wanted to be a good Father and Husband and for the most part he did a decent job. But “decent” is just not good enough. Any good you do can be easily erased when your heart isn’t into the life you are living and/or you are disconnected and going through the motions. When you watch the television show “American Idol” the biggest criticism the judges have of any singer is that you need to connect to the song you are singing. If not, the song does not come across as believable. My Father was singing the lyrics of a song called “parenting” but was not connecting to it’s true meaning. As a young child I would stare at him and wonder why he was so unhappy? Is it us?
When you refuse to get help even though you know your behavior is not acceptable, it leaves young children believing that they are doing something wrong or gives a feeling of being unwanted. This was the case with the three of us. We always felt that we needed to be perfect in order to make my Father happy and this caused a variety of difficulties with self confidence and fear of taking chances along with severe social anxiety. Which I had all three of them for many years until I went for group and personal and group therapy.
Explosive anger was a coping skill when my Father could not control a given situation. He would lash out and curse to the point where my Mother would beg him to stop knowing he was on another level which was frightening. My oldest Sister caught the brunt of everything and he sheltered her to the point of smothering. We were slapped and pushed and smacked with belts. This was the 1970’s and being hit by your parent was deemed as “normal”. My brother once had a bar of soap placed in his mouth because he uttered a curse word. I remember being so upset seeing my brother put through this type of discipline. One time I complained about not wanting to cut the lawn and my Father chased me to my room and made me place my hands on my knees while he slapped me continually across my face. He believed in stern punishment at every turn.
Like any abuser he had tremendous guilt after a night of rage and verbal attacks as those events were always followed by a hand written note apologizing and stating he “loved us”. Then we were guilted into forgiving him loving him back. For years I had stomach issues that only disappeared after I was married in 1994 and moved out of my Father’s house. Coincidence?
My Father always said that he wanted to be remembered as someone who “tried”. Years later it would sink in my brain that a Father and Husband who just “try’s”, is pretty much resolved to mediocrity. There should not be effort into being a person who loves unconditionally. The love for your children should be bountiful beyond measure and never ending. Your sacrifice should only be related to the blood sweat and tears you put into providing for your family so they could feel safe and loved by their parent and husband. Not a sacrifice for another life you wished you had? At times I felt my Dad wanted to be somewhere else other than with us? My sister swears when she was seven years old that my Father almost left the family. She remembers crying and not wanting him to go. Apparently it was California that he was moving to. My Mother was crying and my Father wound up staying. Never asked my Father about it.
Being the youngest of three I witnessed a lot of bad behavior. Yelling was a form of communication along with moments of intelligent conversation. My Father was a well educated man having his Masters Degree and attended Law School. He decided to become a New York City teacher for underprivileged kids. He made a huge impact on many young lives. He had a problem with bringing that part home to us.
On the outside of our home my father was beloved. One of his neighbors placed a beautiful tribute to him on Facebook when he passed away on February 5, 2021;
All of us had a special neighbor who has a big smile, the rock of the neighborhood, the historian of the town, and never had anything bad to say about anyone. With great sadness our neighbor passed away due to COVID 19. His name is Dave and you all know him. A gentile giant, very well read, smart and loved all the neighborhood kids as they grew up from babies to adulthood and welcomed you with a strong handshake and big hug. Our Dave was all that and so much more. We called him Batman because he would take walks with a whiffle ball bat to fend off bees or perhaps a wild dog along the way. And Batman he was a superhero and his super power was kindness, gratitude and making you feel like he really cared. Our superhero on Partridge Run is now gone, not forgotten. The neighborhood grieves and also smiles for all that you gave us. We are grateful to you for the wonderful memories and setting the standard of how we should treat one another. Your faith in God and humanity set you apart and we will do our best to walk in your footsteps. Until we see you again dear friend.
To be honest with you I was blown away. Not for the reasons you might think. Yes, it was a beautiful tribute to my Father and there was a piece of me that knew that person described by his neighbor existed. However I couldn’t help but ask the questions;
“Where was that person in our Life?”
“Who was he talking about?”
However, my wife Laura said to me;
“that is every bit of your Father to that person who described him in the Facebook Post.”
“At least he had a great impact on them.”
This is the part of forgiveness that began to make the most sense. A person can be many different things to all kinds of people. To my Father’s neighbors he was the greatest guy in the world. Being a devout Catholic I am well aware of forgiveness and our perfect example of unconditional love is Jesus Christ;
Then Peter came up and said to him [Jesus], “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?” Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven.” Matt. 18:21–22
Forgiveness is easier when you are facing someone’s mortality. The iron curtain is lifted once you know there is not much time left. Perhaps this is the cowards way of finally facing the person you are hurt by. I could give you a laundry list of reasons why our relationship suffered and ultimately went silent but I am not looking to persuade anyone’s opinion in my favor. The details would only take away from the real point of my story and that is the last conversation of forgiveness of man that wore many personality hats.
Around September of 2020 I started to regret the silent treatment between my Father and I. Like I had said earlier, he had left me two voice mail messages both which were not acts of contrition but a failure on his part to control our relationship. So I did not return the calls.
He couldn’t understand the reasons why that I was “mad” at him? “Mad”? He was convinced it was a “mad” thing and not something deeper.
The holidays came and went and the one year anniversary of the Christmas Eve confrontation rushed in and out without any phone calls or Christmas Cards from either of us. Christmas Eve 2019, I asked him to leave my home because I was done with his bad behavior and especially in front of my in-laws. That was the last time I spoke with him until he was in the hospital.
Through my Sister I had found out that my Father officially sold our childhood home and moved into an assisted living facility not too far from where I live. I felt a sense of relief because the home I grew up in became a shell of what my Mother made it to be, happy and full of encouragement despite my Father’s sabotage instincts. Therefore, I always thought that if he sold the house it would make it easier to visit with him on neutral territory. The years after my Mother passed in 1994 and his marriage to his second wife were chaotic and a petri dish for my Father’s bad behavior to ferment and grow until it ultimately imploded. Which it did. His second wife finally divorced him after years of a mental torture. The same mental torture my Mother endured.
If for Not the Grandchildren
My Father was good to his grandchildren. Especially when they were young (under 13). He would shower them with genuine praise as well as a $10 bill here $20 dollar bill there. Always encouraged college and contributed money to their education. Greeting Cards at every holiday (even Easter and Valentines Day). Trips to the local park and always out to eat. It was a similar pattern of being able to relate to the younger part of his children and grandchildren and fearful as they got older. Lectures would become more frequent after they became teenagers and he would go on about how the world was unsafe and that “I need to watch my Daughter to make sure she is safe”. Similar lectures when they drove places (radio never on) in which he would preach to them about the evil perils of the world.
Unfortunately, as the grandchildren got older they were a witness to his bad behavior (not to themselves) but to my step mother. He would often argue with her and belittle her in front of them. The magical times they spent with him as a child quickly dissipated into them not wanting to be around him. Even if it meant going out to eat or the occasional $10 dollar bill. It had lost it’s loving feeling. To the outside world he was still “Diamond Dave”. A nickname once coined by one of us when we would witness the hypocrisy of his good natured pleasantries to relatives and friends. Once I questioned him; “boy you are just the best thing in the world, aren’t you?” when I couldn’t stand witnessing how nice he was with with a visitor (not sure who) to which he responded;
“What? I’m a great guy!” And he really believed it.
Seventy five percent of this “Great Guy” we never saw. At least we knew that when visitors came (friends or relatives) we knew he would be great. Very welcoming and a great conversationalist. Never realizing he was conflicted inside himself.
We had all our home movies converted to DVD about ten years ago. Some of the movies I had not looked at in years. One particular Christmas home movie stuck in my mind and I replay over and over. Early to mid 1970’s the camera was on my Father opening a present from the the three of us. The item was a belt. Yes, not expensive but a gift that little kids can give their Father. My Father opens it and pretends (like all parents) to be overwhelmingly surprised. The next move he makes is what haunts me. He takes the belt and makes a gesture as if he was wrapping it around his neck and pulls on it as to hang himself, complete with the tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. In the context of the home movie most would view this as him “clowning around” but his face looked serious almost in a “contemplating” phase after the gesture. He fixated his eyes on the belt almost reviewing the use of it other than to hold his pants up. It makes me sad. I believe he suffered from depression and the “belt incident” was evidence of this along with his terrific highs and tremendous lows. When he was in a great mood you couldn’t help but be around him.
The text came to me in January that the end could be soon. My initial Facetime with my Father in his hospital bed was one of confusion and a lot of pain. He was clearly suffering. The nurse held the phone near him as I viewed him moaning and sometimes yelling out in pain. I shouted to him that “I loved him” and “Forgave him”. Also, that he “needed to surrender to God and ask for forgiveness”. Luckily it was not the last conversation. He would rally (like most do) and almost recover to the point of being able to return to the Assisted Living Facility. In fact, he expressed excitement in going back after a short stint in rehab before being released one day soon.
The second meeting through Facetime was an actual conversation and the last one I would have with my Father. Although at the time I did not realize it. As stated above he was rallying from Covid 19 and was looking forward to leaving the hospital. He seemed like his old self even asking about my Daughter (his Grandchild) Nicole. In fact, he remembered that her Birthday was coming up in March. I told him I loved him and he did the same. We exchanged general pleasantries and survived some awkward moments of silence. Sensing that we were both reaching for things to talk about, the nurse saved us and used the excuse that perhaps my Father was tired and could use a little rest. We both again said we loved each other and would talk soon.
The few times after that final conversation I tried to call him through his nurse, he requested that all family members refrain from Facetiming as he would be back home soon and he would speak with everyone at that time. To his credit, despite all his faults and anger issues in the past there were several family members that wanted to speak with him and he felt a little overwhelmed and tired from the Facetime calls. The way the nurse explained it is,
when my Father knew a call was coming it would take all his energy to speak and his breath was still short and he would tire easily. As much as enjoyed the conversations Covid was merciless when it came to his lungs.
The final text came through that it was matter of hours or days before my Father was going to pass. Later I would learn that the hospital staff played religious music for him and he received his last rites as a catholic believer.
Thankfully (with the urging of my Daughter) I had my last conversation with my Father and made Peace. A heaviness that I felt like a weighted blanket was lifted from me once he passed. No longer did I feel sorrow or hatred for a person that could be so mean and difficult to so many. Finally being with my Mother in heaven and side by side at their grave site, there is a sense of completion for both of them. Something I never felt about my Mother but now her passing in 1994 was no longer a burden of grief which plagued all of us since that April 2nd day. Visiting the grave site and having both my parents there is strange. I never thought that both of them being gone would actually be a sense of relief because the anguish of my Father’s depression and anxiety was now gone and he could be with my Mother where he always wanted to be. My Father was finally at peace and he could no longer hurt anyone (especially himself).
The modest colonial house that sat on a hill that my parents were so proud of now is occupied by a new family with little kids. For over 50 years someone named “Owens” owned the 4 bedroom house with red shutters. I pass it often to properly grieve the passing of my childhood home. I pray for the new family that they experience endless joy and only hope that my Mother’s spirit graces their presence as she would love nothing more than for the new family to be happy.
