Happy Father's Day, Dad
This post is dedicated to my wonderful dad: Jan. 22, 1922-May 8, 1985
I never called my dad "daddy". He was always "dad". He was a thick, muscular man. He was born in the Ukraine, lived in Germany during World War II, and emigrated to England after the war, which is where he met my mother.
My dad was tough. He could scare the hell out of you. He sure scared the hell out of me on occasion, and sometimes I hated him. He had a really bad temper which, I now believe, stemmed from a lot of emotional insecurities. He didn't have the time or leisure to sit down and read a self-help book and go and get psychoanalyzed. He would have hissed in contempt at the thought. There were bills to be paid, work to get done. And us kids could really get on his nerves. We were always making too much noise and bothering him. That's when the temper would manifest itself, and one or all of us would get the back of his hand. It was a fucking strong hand, too. The kind that could tear down a tree. So, we learned to tiptoe around him when he was in those moods. Yet, he loved me. I knew he loved me. I was his only girl, and the youngest. I was his princess. My mother used to joke about it and say it in a cloying way: "You're his princess." But I think she was just jealous. Because when my dad was feeling fine, secure, and content -- which wasn't often enough, and I wish it had been so much more -- he could be the kindest, gentlest man you would ever meet.
My dad worked in a factory for over 20 years. He worked the night shift, because it paid a bit more. He would leave the house at around 9:15 and come home at about 7 in the morning. Very often, he would bring home packages of soup and other foods that were made in the factory. Because he was an employee, he got them at a discount, and me and my brothers grew up eating that food. I still eat food made by the same company today, and every time I do, I think of him.
One morning, shortly before he was due to retire, my dad was driving home from work and had to pull over because he was having excruciating pain in his groin. He thought he just had to urinate, but when he tried, blood came out. He went to the doctor and went through various tests. Soon afterward, he had to go into the hospital for a biopsy. This is a procedure where they remove a sample of tissue and test it for cancer cells. It was positive. My dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer and scheduled for an operation.
I can only describe the next one or two years as absolute hell. I was only 19 or so at the time, and I was not ready to lose my dad. Yet, as soon as I heard that word "cancer", I knew. I knew it would be bad. So much of my dad's life had been bad. He'd told me about some of his experiences during the war, being forced to sit in the corner to eat in the home of a family he was working for. He said they treated him like an animal, and I have no doubt they did, because I know how cruel people can be, especially when they sense someone vulnerable nearby. Anyway, I just had a feeling that the outcome wouldn't be good, and it wasn't. When they operated, they found a large tumour in his bladder and had to remove his bladder. After that, he was no longer able to urinate the normal way. He had a bag attached to his stomach that held his urine and it had to be changed once or twice a day. I knew this was one of the worst possible things that could happen to my dad. He was such a big, strong man, and now he couldn't even go to the bathroom anymore. It took away his self-respect and his manhood. I knew this and it broke my heart. It was so hard to look at him sometimes, because he got so depressed. He was scared too, and so was I. We both knew that just because he had had this operation didn't mean he was cured. Everyone knew it could come back, and if it did, it would just be a matter of time. And that's what happened. It came back anyway, after degrading his body (as if that weren't enough), and this time, there was no operation possible.
I don't think I could ever describe how horrible it was to see my dad wither away. Each day, he seemed to get thinner, weaker, sadder, and more scared. I had never seen my dad scared of anything or anyone before. It scared me, seeing him scared. The worst thing was just seeing that powerful body shrink before my eyes. It was like he was disappearing, and I was so terrified. It was the only I could think about every day. The fact that my dad was sick took over all of our lives. It was not possible to think of having any real fun or doing anything for long that would distract you. It was like the elephant in the room. My dad was dying. And all of us knew it.
He had to go to a chronic care hospital because there was no way we could care for him at home. He was getting confused, belligerent, difficult. It seemed to me like once he found out the cancer came back, he just started to die, and his brain was one of the first organs affected. It was so horrible. He was in the hospital for a few months. Then, early one morning, they called us to get down to the hospital as soon as possible, because he wasn't doing too well. We all know what that is a euphemism for.
He came to visit me, his little princess, to say goodbye and let me know he was okay before he moved on. I felt his spirit come up a staircase behind me and push open a door. I felt a little breeze and I knew it was him. Then, inside my head, I heard him say, I'm fine, don't worry about me, and it was as if I could see him standing there, beaming with happiness, and I was so happy and glad for him, but then I thought, No, please don't go! But a second later, he was gone.
I miss my dad. He never got to see me get married, or see his granddaughter. I know he would have been absolutely thrilled to see his little baby granddaughter when she was born, and see her growing up now. I'm sure I would now be relegated to Princess #2 and my daughter Emily would get Princess #1 spot. :-) But that is just fine with me. I would so have loved to put my baby girl in his arms and have him hold her and let him see that his life was not all just work, drudgery, and struggle. Some good things did come out of it. I would love to talk to him and get his advice now, on some things I have gone through, and am going through. I could always talk to my dad.
My dad was nobody fancy. He didn't have fancy aspirations, he didn't have fancy ideals, he didn't have fancy anything. He was just a hardworking man who did the best he could for his family. I know in my heart that he was very unhappy with the way his life had turned out. I'm sure there were moments he wished he could just get in his car and drive off and wash his hands of the responsibility. Being a parent now myself, I can definitely relate to that feeling.
He was a magnificent man. Absolutely magnificent. And I will always love him, and he will always be my hero.
I never called my dad "daddy". He was always "dad". He was a thick, muscular man. He was born in the Ukraine, lived in Germany during World War II, and emigrated to England after the war, which is where he met my mother.
My dad was tough. He could scare the hell out of you. He sure scared the hell out of me on occasion, and sometimes I hated him. He had a really bad temper which, I now believe, stemmed from a lot of emotional insecurities. He didn't have the time or leisure to sit down and read a self-help book and go and get psychoanalyzed. He would have hissed in contempt at the thought. There were bills to be paid, work to get done. And us kids could really get on his nerves. We were always making too much noise and bothering him. That's when the temper would manifest itself, and one or all of us would get the back of his hand. It was a fucking strong hand, too. The kind that could tear down a tree. So, we learned to tiptoe around him when he was in those moods. Yet, he loved me. I knew he loved me. I was his only girl, and the youngest. I was his princess. My mother used to joke about it and say it in a cloying way: "You're his princess." But I think she was just jealous. Because when my dad was feeling fine, secure, and content -- which wasn't often enough, and I wish it had been so much more -- he could be the kindest, gentlest man you would ever meet.
My dad worked in a factory for over 20 years. He worked the night shift, because it paid a bit more. He would leave the house at around 9:15 and come home at about 7 in the morning. Very often, he would bring home packages of soup and other foods that were made in the factory. Because he was an employee, he got them at a discount, and me and my brothers grew up eating that food. I still eat food made by the same company today, and every time I do, I think of him.
One morning, shortly before he was due to retire, my dad was driving home from work and had to pull over because he was having excruciating pain in his groin. He thought he just had to urinate, but when he tried, blood came out. He went to the doctor and went through various tests. Soon afterward, he had to go into the hospital for a biopsy. This is a procedure where they remove a sample of tissue and test it for cancer cells. It was positive. My dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer and scheduled for an operation.
I can only describe the next one or two years as absolute hell. I was only 19 or so at the time, and I was not ready to lose my dad. Yet, as soon as I heard that word "cancer", I knew. I knew it would be bad. So much of my dad's life had been bad. He'd told me about some of his experiences during the war, being forced to sit in the corner to eat in the home of a family he was working for. He said they treated him like an animal, and I have no doubt they did, because I know how cruel people can be, especially when they sense someone vulnerable nearby. Anyway, I just had a feeling that the outcome wouldn't be good, and it wasn't. When they operated, they found a large tumour in his bladder and had to remove his bladder. After that, he was no longer able to urinate the normal way. He had a bag attached to his stomach that held his urine and it had to be changed once or twice a day. I knew this was one of the worst possible things that could happen to my dad. He was such a big, strong man, and now he couldn't even go to the bathroom anymore. It took away his self-respect and his manhood. I knew this and it broke my heart. It was so hard to look at him sometimes, because he got so depressed. He was scared too, and so was I. We both knew that just because he had had this operation didn't mean he was cured. Everyone knew it could come back, and if it did, it would just be a matter of time. And that's what happened. It came back anyway, after degrading his body (as if that weren't enough), and this time, there was no operation possible.
I don't think I could ever describe how horrible it was to see my dad wither away. Each day, he seemed to get thinner, weaker, sadder, and more scared. I had never seen my dad scared of anything or anyone before. It scared me, seeing him scared. The worst thing was just seeing that powerful body shrink before my eyes. It was like he was disappearing, and I was so terrified. It was the only I could think about every day. The fact that my dad was sick took over all of our lives. It was not possible to think of having any real fun or doing anything for long that would distract you. It was like the elephant in the room. My dad was dying. And all of us knew it.
He had to go to a chronic care hospital because there was no way we could care for him at home. He was getting confused, belligerent, difficult. It seemed to me like once he found out the cancer came back, he just started to die, and his brain was one of the first organs affected. It was so horrible. He was in the hospital for a few months. Then, early one morning, they called us to get down to the hospital as soon as possible, because he wasn't doing too well. We all know what that is a euphemism for.
He came to visit me, his little princess, to say goodbye and let me know he was okay before he moved on. I felt his spirit come up a staircase behind me and push open a door. I felt a little breeze and I knew it was him. Then, inside my head, I heard him say, I'm fine, don't worry about me, and it was as if I could see him standing there, beaming with happiness, and I was so happy and glad for him, but then I thought, No, please don't go! But a second later, he was gone.
I miss my dad. He never got to see me get married, or see his granddaughter. I know he would have been absolutely thrilled to see his little baby granddaughter when she was born, and see her growing up now. I'm sure I would now be relegated to Princess #2 and my daughter Emily would get Princess #1 spot. :-) But that is just fine with me. I would so have loved to put my baby girl in his arms and have him hold her and let him see that his life was not all just work, drudgery, and struggle. Some good things did come out of it. I would love to talk to him and get his advice now, on some things I have gone through, and am going through. I could always talk to my dad.
My dad was nobody fancy. He didn't have fancy aspirations, he didn't have fancy ideals, he didn't have fancy anything. He was just a hardworking man who did the best he could for his family. I know in my heart that he was very unhappy with the way his life had turned out. I'm sure there were moments he wished he could just get in his car and drive off and wash his hands of the responsibility. Being a parent now myself, I can definitely relate to that feeling.
He was a magnificent man. Absolutely magnificent. And I will always love him, and he will always be my hero.
posted by emily pound at 3:04 PM
3 Comments:
((((((((((Jennie)))))))))))))
Thank you. :-)
Dear Emily:
What a wonderful memorial to a fine man who almost certainly could not have been prouder of you than he was. As a father there is nothing more emotionally satisfying then the love, respect, admiration and friendship of our children. And nothing can make one as proud as the knowledge that our children have grown up to be good, decent and nice human beings. These sound like pablum, but in fact are the core values that parents work so hard to inculcate in their children. The book learning, the hard lessons that life teaches all and the joys and sadness will all follow, but if at the core a person is good, decent and a nice human being, the rest will work out fine.
I have no doubt that when he looked at you he saw those values, his values, being carried on to the next generation, secure in his immortality with you.
Happy Father's day to you as you share the day with your father who's obviously still close to your heart.
Huge
Huge,
Thank you for those beautiful comments. I just wish I could have told my dad about the depth of my feelings for him while he was alive. He was the kind of man who felt uneasy or shy about expressing love, but he always managed to find a way to do it. One of my most treasured memories is when he was very sick and still at home, we were alone in the house together, and he was lying on the couch (as he always was in those days, he was always so weak and tired) ... we had had a long talk about I don't know what, I guess his sickness, his future, my future ... and I was getting ready to leave the room and I took his hand and told him I loved him. I could see the tears in his eyes and they were certainly in mine.
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