"I don't want to carry the anguish with me. I think it's just the way humans are wired: pain follows us, happiness often hides."
Father's Day is on the horizon. It's only nine days away.
My father, Nicholas, died the day after my twenty-fifth birthday. My brother Brian and I flanked our mother, Rebecca, on both sides of his deathbed. Nicholas reached for Rebecca's s hand. When their hands touched, the last breath of Nicholas's life drained from his body, + cancer had claimed another soul.
I never knew my father.
“The times” and religion scripted my story. I was a secret baby. Born in a secret place. The shame of family + community + and religion. How could I ever grow up?
I have carried the pain of “the times” with me ever since.
I search my memory banks, trying to conjure up tender memories of my father. I cannot find, one.
I remember him teaching me to drive, only in reverse, replacing my car's gearshift with vice grips, + a smashed headlight, with a trouble light. I do remember Nicholas taking me to see a “James Bond” or “Carry On” movie every Christmas Night — half of the audience would march out of the cinema in protest as soon as nudity appeared on the screen during the “Carry On” movies. I'm dating myself. I'm not sure these memories are real or a product of my imagination.
I cannot summons up tender moments. I'm sure they exist. I feel awful I cannot find them. I don't think I'm being fair to Nicholas.
He's not my father.
Eighteen years after Nicholas died, I met my birth father, Elmer, for the first time. He tapped on the window of my Toyota Corolla during the wind + rainstorm of 2006 in Vancouver. When I rolled the window down, Elmer said, “Lindsay, are you going to stay in there all day?” I got out. He hugged me. The first time I recall my father hugging me.
We shared lunch. Elmer apologized for the past, “I'm sorry for what the adults did to you.”
He brought a female companion with him to ease the absurdity of the day. At the end of lunch, he warmly looked at his companion and said, “I told you he's a good man.”
We hugged again when he departed. He welcomed me into his life and invited me to become part of his family.
Two weeks later, I called Elmer to tell him he wasn't my father; my mother Bernice, had lied on my birth record. We both cried our eyes out during the call.
My moments with Elmer are the fondest memories I have of my father.
He, too, wasn't my father.
In 2016, alongside my mother's deathbed, the second time I was watching my mother die, I asked Bernice who my birth father is, to which she said, “I'm glad it wasn't that asshole.”
I don't know who my father is?
I carry pain with me daily, being reminded every Father’s Day, + every family-oriented day throughout each year.
I don't want to carry the anguish with me. I think it's just the way humans are wired: pain follows us, happiness often hides.
Occasionally, when I've shared my upset with friends, I've been met with, “It was the times.” Or “A lot of people come from messed up homes.” Or “We could never figure out why you are the way you are. This explains it.”
Shut up, would have been kinder. I'm no longer friends with WE.
This is my story; I hurt every year, feel pain, and feel sad for Nicholas. I feel grateful for my brief moments with Elmer. I feel sad for my family, who have never asked me if I am, okay?
Father’s Day is nine days away.
I struggle with being reminded yearly of what I don't, or perhaps, never had.
I cannot fathom the pain of fathers who have lost a child.
A light comes on. I'm okay: I think.
A young boy and girl (siblings) walk by, holding hands, grinning from ear-to-ear, father closely by in tow. My heart warms. I'm happy seeing what they have.
I see children laughing and running (like drunk sailors) in a park, their parents close at hand, smiling as well. Joy enters my heart.
I can never erase the pains of my past.
Why would I?
The pain has gifted me with much: empathy + compassion.
I don't want to wipe away who I have become. What I can say to all of the fathers out there who've given their children the safety of smiling, laughing, and playing, “Thank you for doing the most important thing you can do: showing up and being there to allow moments of tenderness to flourish.”
Thank You.
Father’s Day is nine, eight…four… days…
Happy Father's Day!