The elephant in the room

My father passed away two years ago today.

I have no idea where I am going with this post. I think I am trying to find some kind of peace with my father, with his life, with myself... I don't know what I am looking for.

I was in Montreal when my dad died - I had seen him 4 days before, after not seeing him for close to 2 years. The decline in his health was unmistakable. I didn't know what to say or think, I sort of filed all the feelings inside me, waiting to get back to Luxembourg to deal with them.

I was home alone that trip, and not in a good place. I was working too much under a great deal of stress, Marc was travelling frequently (too much in my mind), the kids were at a new daycare and not doing well - they were unhappy and sick. We'd been badly hit by rising mortgage rates. Everything seemed wrong. I had said to our minister that I felt like I was running on empty. I had nothing left to give anyone.

So my dad's death was not something I was at all prepared to deal with - I know, when are you ever really prepared to deal with a death, but I was particularly low.

I am ashamed to admit that I think about my dad more since his death than in the last few years of his life. It's as if him passing away has opened some great Pandora's box and things in my life that were so neatly labelled for years became ambiguous.

My father was an alcoholic. He had a bad drinking problem - he was never violent, but he was neglectful. And absent. It was easy to label him a bad father. And I know that he was not a good father. But since he died I have been able to see other things - that he was not a happy person. That as much as he hurt me and others that he hurt himself far far more. We all survived his drinking - he did not.

The need to protect myself and my family from my father was gone once he was gone. I remember my first visit to Canada with Stuart. He was 3 1/2 months old. He was colicky, I was exhausted and had just been diagnosed with post-partum depression (which they don't seem to treat in Luxembourg when you are nursing). I know that I had taken my baby out to my grandparents and my father was there. I know I did this, but I can't remember it, no matter how hard I have tried this morning. What I do remember is the second time my father saw Stuart a few days later.

He engineered a meeting - calling my mother's house, insisting I had to meet my aunt who had just flown in from Vancouver. I said no. He badgered. I gave in eventually. When we got to the MacDonalds where we were meeting it took all of about 30 seconds to realize he'd been drinking (though he would swear up and down later that he hadn't). And that day I went right back to needing to protect myself and my baby from his drinking.

Since his death I have wondered if maybe I took it too far. Is this what guilt makes you do? I saw him whenever we were home, sent cards, most years called for his birthday. I know now how every photo I would send was treasured, every card. It would have cost nothing to me to send more, yet I didn't. Maybe it felt like giving him false hope. Maybe I was so overwhelmed with my life that I was already not doing enough for the other people in my life who I had much easier relationships with.

Seeing my dad's house 2 years ago was a shock. I had not stepped inside for close to 22 years. And I could see the disrepair, the neglect, the clutter. My father did not know how to care for himself. He did not respect himself enough to take care of himself. I found receipts for anti-depressants. It should have been obvious to me that he was depressed - who wouldn't be living his life - but it still surprised me.

I have wavered dangerously close to absolving my father of any wrong doing. Of casting him in the role of victim. He grew up in a home that is purported to be perfect, the family a loving one that most people would want to be part of. I know now, with all the wisdom of age, how disfunctional it was (then again who have a fully functional family?). I have found excuses for him. Imagined pain he must have felt. Blamed things on others.

But at the end of the day, my father had choices to make in life and he made them. I don't like the choices he made. I miss him. I miss the little girl who thought her daddy was the most wonderful man in the world. I see Julia looking at Marc with such adoration and I em envious.

I said I don't know where I am going with this post. Maybe I am just trying to put some of it down in words so that I can find a way to reconcile some of these conflicting feelings.

And perhaps put the man to rest finally.