I Love My Dad, But . . .
June 20th is my dad’s birthday. He died of pancreatic cancer when he was 47; had he lived, he would be 72. His name is Stanley, Stan for short (or Stas if you’re family). I called him Dad.
In 2023, I posted a short list of some of the things I miss about him. I thought I’d extend that list here.
Some things I miss About my dad
Baby me sitting on my dad’s belly on a classic 70s style plaid couch.
My dad had the answer to anything I was curious about. He was my Wikipedia before Wikipedia. From identifying a Cedar Waxwing over the phone, to telling me whether I could fix my car on my own or if I should take it to a shop (also over the phone).
He was typically quiet, but get him talking about one of his passions, like coin collecting, you couldn’t shut him up.
The way he would look over his glasses when he was inspecting a coin.
He grew and made things (like sour cherry jam from the tree he planted next to the deck he built).
He believed if you didn’t enjoy your job, you shouldn’t do it (advice I didn’t always follow, but wish I had).
He supported me, even when I was angry with him for his faults.
He not only supported me, but he rooted for me. He was excited about my life decisions.
He taught me the value of wonder.
And of looking closely at nature with respect and curiosity.
He was honest.
He treated me like an adult before any other family member. The first time was when he opened up about attending AA meetings. I was home from college and making a veggie burger (from a box mix), he asked for one, and then just started talking about AA. I was surprised, but it was a turning point in our otherwise strained relationship.
My dad challenged me to be my best self.
Wish You Were Here
I miss being able to talk to my dad about certain things.
All the places I’ve lived and traveled. A conversation we had once gave me the courage to move to the East Coast after college and began a lifetime of adventure.
My interest in natural dyeing. He would have been such a good resource for the science of dyeing and for plant identification.
My love for my partner. I think they would have gotten along so well.
Issues with my car! (See above.)
Anything I’m curious about. I’d much rather talk to him than search the internet. I trust his information more, too!
Politics, though I am not sure what he’d think today. Would his free-love-hippie sensibility hold, or would his opinions have changed? I like to think his values would stay the same, and that he’d remain caring to all people, but I just don’t know. He worked in an industry that leans conservative, but he also worked with many different types of people. I wonder about this quite a bit. Regardless, I know he would have listened to me and considered my point of view. I also know he would not have wished for anyone to die. We were taught compassion.
All the memories I have of my childhood. I have no one left to ask about how old I was for my developmental milestones (walking, talking, and the like). My dad would swear that my first word was “shampoo” because he forgot to wash my hair when giving me a bath. My Papa used to joke that my Nana chose that moniker because it’s one of the first sounds babies make. I like both stories, but I have no idea how old I was when I started talking.
Sarah.
Grief coaching. When my Dziadzi (grandpa) died, my dad didn’t cry at the funeral until he turned around and saw me. He nearly collapsed into my arms. Perhaps that was the first sign I’d end up supporting grieving people. I’ve found my vocation, and I know he’d be proud.
Dziadi looking over Dad’s shoulder.
Some things I don’t miss about my dad
His temper.
His adherence to patriarchal gender roles (my mom, too).
I can’t think of anything else, since those two things encompass a lot. We don’t often talk about what we don’t miss about someone who died. We’re expected to think fondly of the dead because they can’t defend themselves. Well, that’s silly. I’d rather remember my dad as a whole person, not just the shiny and soft parts. He could be stubborn, even mean. Those things shaped who I am as a person and how I change and grow. Those are things I work on with my therapist.
Do Not Speak Ill of the Dead
The aphorism “speak no ill of the dead” has persisted since Ancient Greece. Though first written in classic Greek, the full Latin phrase is De mortuis nil nisi bonum, which translates to "of the dead nothing but good is to be said." (Wikipedia)
My short list above feels inadequate, even though temper and patriarchal roles cover a lot of ground. I had a therapist once (not the one I have now) who repeatedly explained to me that I had been parentified as a child, and that a lot of my issues were due to my parents’ alcoholism. At the time, I felt like she was stuck on that, unable to see that my parents were actually good, loving parents. I know now that both things can be true. Their alcoholism absolutely parentified me and had profound effects on my and my siblings’ mental health. There were other factors at play as well: their age, their own mental health, and their financial situation to name a few. They were also kind, loving, supportive, and provided for us.
We are permitted to recognize both the good and bad in people.* Think of celebrities whose transgressions are forgotten after they die. This is a disservice to the people they harmed. I would not be able to grow as a person if I “forgot” the difficult and hurtful things about my dad. I’m a better person for it. An article in Psychology Today discusses the benefits of talking “ill of the dead” because it helps break intergenerational trauma patterns.
Dad when he was 7 at his first communion.
I used to say that it felt right that my parents died because I didn’t know how they would have affected the lives of my brothers, sister, and me. Even though it was a struggle to be without parents (my brothers were both minors when my dad died), they were getting by. The truth is, they weren’t doing well. I wasn’t doing well in my grief–I mostly just ignored it, to be honest. This was before I learned about ancestral or intergenerational trauma. From a WebMD article:
How your parents talk with you about the traumatic event (or fail to talk about it) and the way your family functions seem to play important roles in whether trauma gets passed down. For example, a parent’s experience of trauma might affect their parenting skills and play a role in their children’s behavior problems.
Have you read Jennette McCurdy’s memoir, I’m Glad My Mom Died (also mentioned in the Psychology Today article)? Her mom was physically and emotionally abusive in some horrifying ways. McCurdy talks about the abuse, but she also explains the complicated emotions she has for her mother. She misses her even though her mom harmed her. By being able to talk about both the bad and the good, as well as her feelings about it all, McCurdy was able to change her own harmful behaviors and heal the parts of her that were hurt.
Many of our relationships are complicated and deserve to be looked at from all angles, even after a loved one dies. The term “complicated grief” however, is a clinical term applied to prolonged grief. There’s not really a good term to explain the complex feelings we have for someone we’ve had a complicated relationship with.
Mom, Dad, and newborn Tamara in the hospital.
More Than One Thing Can Be True
I love the saying “more than one thing can be true.” It applies to many situations, and especially to feelings. I can appreciate the ways my dad supported me, but I can also be angry with him for his temper. Neither thing changes the love I had for him; rather, it informs the love I had for him. Often, when I’m thinking about my dad, I remember something positive, like searching for mushrooms. Slowly, as memories tend to do, it advances to another memory, and then another. My thoughts drift to the time my dad insisted I try a grilled portobello, even though I’d never liked eating mushrooms (didn’t like it–portobello is the worst!). My thoughts might then drift to how my dad did the grocery shopping, which might then lead to thoughts about a time when I got in trouble for sassing him when he asked me to put the groceries away. He overreacted to the situation. I have carried this memory for a long time, but I now see it from different perspectives. He was wrong to react the way he did. Therapy taught me that he was responding from his own intergenerational trauma and subsequent anxiety. The good thing about being able to recognize this duality is that the memory no longer holds as much pain as it once did.
If you have complicated relationships with your parents or the people who raised you, Internal Family Systems is a type of therapy that might be helpful. EMDR is another. Trust me, it can be freeing to work through these traumas.
I’d love to hear about your complicated relationships with someone who’s died. Contact me about one-on-one grief coaching. I’m not a therapist, but I’m a really good listener who will normalize these complex and confusing feelings. You can share all the parts of your memories, not just the “happy” ones. I’m here to listen, and I want to know.
Dad dancing with beautiful Sarah
*Except for the truly evil people. Always speak ill of Hitler, Mussolini, Pol Pot, Manson, Dahmer, etc. They do not get a pass or understanding.
