My dad and I were estranged when he passed away. I was practicing family medicine in Durham, CT, but on that fateful day, I was in Hyannis, MA, attending a writer’s conference. Cape Cod was not far from my childhood home in New Bedford, MA. Something was clearly drawing me back to the place.
Living with Regrets
It was October 23, 2009. My sister broke the news to me over the phone. Alone in a hotel room, my muscles froze up, my stomach dropped, and my mind spiraled into paralyzing what-ifs. This was more than the sad grief that comes with the unexpected loss of a loved one. It was the kind of grief that comes with heavy regret.
To this day, I ask myself why my dad and I didn’t reconcile before his untimely passing. What stings, even more, is that I picked up the phone weeks earlier, not necessarily to “forgive and forget”, but to talk. He didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. My moment of bravery passed and I am left to wonder if he would be alive if we had talked that day.
Our Father-Daughter Story
I loved my dad. Always did, always will. Raising my kids today, I tell them story after story of things he had done when I was young. All the good things that give the warm fuzzy feelings.
How he always sang the most off-the-wall, i.e., WRONG, song lyrics. While doing some fancy footwork and throwing punches, his love of Rocky Balboa put a hole into a wall of sheetrock. He called me little linguica face because I loved the Portuguese sausage, not because I really ever broke out as a teen. We would talk about “life” when he drove me home from my shifts at Wendy’s back in high school. At my wedding, he squeezed me so hard during the father-daughter dance that a button almost popped off my dress.
On the surface, he was a doting dad. No one suspected his life was torn apart by addiction. He went to rehab a few times, even jail, but he always found a way to get out early. Things would go well for a while but it wouldn’t take long for things to spin out of control.
Living with Addiction
Growing up with addiction is not easy for the person using or for their family. Everyone suffers; everyone struggles. While my father showed me love over the years, he also filled me with self-doubt. It wasn’t intentional, of course. His behavior was a byproduct of his addiction and not directed at me. That didn’t make it hurt less.
I moved off to college but his addiction followed me. I worried about him, and more than once I bailed him out of a tough situation.
Eventually, I became a mother and had children of my own. As any parent does, I wanted more for my kids than what I had growing up. I wanted them to feel good about themselves, and to know that, in my eyes, they came first.
He kept using and eventually stole from family members. I finally realized that no matter what I did, no matter what I said, he had to want to change for himself. I had to stop enabling him and give him the opportunity to stand on his own. Until I knew he wasn’t going to hurt my children, no matter how unintentional, I had to step back. He couldn’t hurt us, I told myself, if I cut ties for a while. Except that I was wrong. It hurt even more when he passed away.
Walking in My Father’s Shoes
I cannot presume to know what started my dad down his path, but his life was not easy. His oldest brother was stillborn. His next older brother Dennis died at 20 years old (my baby brother was named after him), tragically struck by a drunk driver only months after returning home from a tour in Korea. My dad was only 14 years old at the time and the sole surviving son.
The loss of his brother strained the family. Dealing with grief is hard, and let’s face it, the 70s weren’t exactly about letting men express their feelings. My dad started to get into trouble and dropped out of middle school. He became such a handful, my grandmother sent him to live with her sister for a while. He met my mom, had me at 18 years old, and started a family. My sister came 2 years later. He later enlisted in the Army at 20 years old or so but didn’t make it through basic training due to a bad knee. Although he was honorably discharged, his ego likely took the hit. Again, he could not live up to his brother’s legacy.
A family man without a high school diploma, he had to find a way to make ends meet. He survived on his wits, working as a roofer and contractor for most of his life, a physical job that takes its toll on a weary body. He was a good man who faced hard times in his youth, a man who tried to do the best for his family, but a man who made mistakes along the way. Like all of us, he was only human.
Never Too Late to Forgive
People told me not to talk about it, not to tell anyone. It was “family business”. But how many families struggle with the same issues? How many families hide in shame when they really need to support each other? For too many years, I hid the fact that my father had an addiction. I felt alone and ashamed, not only because I worried about his reputation (I did not want anyone to judge him) but also because it made me feel unworthy of any successes I achieved in my own life (I felt like the ultimate imposter). I felt “not good enough”, and I pushed myself perhaps harder than I had to, trying to prove my worth to others.
Enough of that. As much as I can resent his addiction and how it affected certain dynamics within our family, the simple facts remain. I loved my dad. He dad had an illness. He suffered but he did his best. So did I. No one is perfect. All we can do is learn from our mistakes, forgive, and move on to better days.
Addiction afflicts as many as 20 million people every year. Those who love and support them are also affected. There are so many of us out there, so many people who cope in silence. It’s time to realize we are not alone and that it’s okay to share our stories. The time for stigma is over. It’s time to band together, to find treatment for those we love, and to rebuild what we’ve lost.
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