Daddy’s Girl

The memory below is disjointed and knowingly does not flow. The tale is not a warm fuzzy Father’s Day story. People have strong  feelings about their parents.  They love them. They hate them. They hold them responsible for their imperfections. Yes, you may not have or have had perfect parents. I am not the perfect parent, but if my children know nothing else, I need them to know I tried. My father is gone, but I will always be a Daddy’s girl.

How do you put into words the meaning of Father’s Day?  Any words would not, and could not possibly, encompass the dynamic range of emotions a girl has for her daddy.  My daddy was my hero. He was far from perfect, but he was my first love, and the day he died a part of my soul died along with him. From the depths of my memory a little girl screamed  as she watched  in silence as the casket lid slowly closed on the day of his funeral.  Luckily  there are only a few moments in life that are dramatic as the death of a loved one.

My dad had been in hospice care since coming home from the hospital in July. October 1st my husband and I had just  returned from what I was sure  would be the last time I saw my dad. Comfort, either emotionally or physically, was not to be had. I was nearing the end of my 7th month of a twin pregnancy.  I remember the morning of October 3rd as though I lived it yesterday. This particular morning found me on the couch, as did most mornings. Sleep was elusive. Similar to the “shot heard around the world”, the ring of the phone shattered the complete stillness and quiet of the morning. The phone rang two, three, four times, while I stared at it sitting on the coffee table. If I did not answer the phone, I would not have to hear what I knew was about to be said. If the words were not spoken, then it would not have happened. After literally willing myself to answer the phone, I heard  my sister’s breaking  voice  inform me  “Daddy’s Gone.”

My dad had a bit of a turbulent childhood. His mother and father divorced when he was quite young. This divorce had an everlasting effect on him. Not to divulge to many family skeletons, I will simply say my dad and his step father were not close. The only stories that I have ever heard concerning my dad’s stepfather were not happy. He, like many children of divorce,  bounced between the homes of both parents. My grandfather was strict, and tolerated little of my father’s temper and his increasingly reckless behavior as he grew older and bigger.  On one hand my grandmother adored  her son, but he and his stepfather did not get along and on the other my grandfather had young children with his second wife, and  felt  their innocence needed to be shielded from the unpredictable behavior  of their older brother. Whether my father made this decision or it was chosen for him, he  (was) enlisted in the army.  Shortly after the enlistment, his maternal grandmother died. He was refused leave to attend her funeral,  so he excused himself from the Army.

My mom was my dad’s 3rd wife. I guess three times was the charm. When my parents  married at the ages of 35, my father had six children from previous marriages, and my mother had 5 and they had me. One big happy family right? Not exactly. There were several layers of dysfunction that has gave me a life’s PhD in family relationships. He was wild. He was angry, and most importantly he was hurt. He ached  to have the bond most sons have with their father. A  memory my father rarely shared  and usually had to be drinking, was of him as a small child hiding under a table having wet himself from fear and crying. The fear was legitimate.

Despite  his faults but  he was still  my hero. I did not love him in spite of his faults, I loved him more because of them. He had spent his entire life trying to hide his tenderness and soft side because that was not how a man acted.  Luckily, he was terrible at hiding the side that everyone who knew him was drawn to. He had scars and skeletons. Many I have heard and some I have not. He was far from perfect. Regardless, he was loved by so many.

On July 1st, 2002 my daddy had exploratory surgery for a persistent, intense pain.  Following the surgery, the  surgeon walked through a waiting room literally filled with loved ones of my father to inform my mother and me my dad had inoperable pancreatic cancer.    Even with chemotherapy, his expected life expectancy was 6 to 9 months. We were advised not to discuss this with my father until an Oncologist was present. How I managed to finish the conversation, and keep my composer until I left that waiting room, I still have no idea.

For the  following few months , every two weeks, my husband and I travel the 250 miles to Mississippi to be with my dad. He had refused chemotherapy. He did not want to spend what remaining time he had left sick and in isolation. My blood pressure was creeping up and my fluid retention due to my pregnancy was getting worse. My obstetrician advised against long road trips but he also understood my situation. Each visit was a mental struggle. My dad was constantly worrying  how his impending death was affecting everyone. Me. My grandmother. My grandfather. I did not want him to see how truly heartbroken I was. He knew. Everyone knew, but he did not need to be surrounded by sadness.

One of the last visits I had with him, I sat next to him on his bed and laid my head on his shoulder. Tears silently rolled down my cheeks. When I lifted my head he was looking at me and then down to my very pregnant belly. For a moment he just looked and then patted my belly. He then looked up and me and just said “I’m sorry.”  Less than 3 weeks later, I received the call from sister. Fifteen days later I was having an emergency C-Section due to high pressure from preeclampsia.

How do I make my father, my daddy, one of the men I loved most in this world, real for my children?  Do I have the ability to create a human the would love with words? Sadly, I have come realize the answer is no. By now they could probably describe him to a sketch artist. They all know my son resembles him both physically and with personality. This does not change the fact that they will never “know” him. I truly imagined my son going fishing with his grandfather and probably learning some of the best curse words. My daughter Anna would be Mary Helen the 3rd, as I am the second, due to her feisty nature. Emily would have been overly coddled due to her propensity for rolling her bottom lip out about a foot when life displeased her. I can have these prediction, but truth is, I will never know. Even if they do hear the same stories over and over, they are all I have to offer.

When you are young, mortality is not a reality, if you are lucky. Do not take your father for granted, or anyone for that matter. If  love them and appreciate them, tell them. Regularly.

Timothy Temple, I am so lucky to have you by my side and my partner in life as we attempt to guide these people through life to adulthood. Every step we have taken together. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being an amazingly wonderful father. Everyday with you is just another day in the fairytale. Happy Father’s Day. I love you.

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