I think about him sometimes, sitting at that sticky wooden bar, in the dim lighting, surrounded by other middle aged men with cold beers in their hands. I can picture him laughing at something the guy next to him said, the TV blaring a sports game. I imagine he’s comfortable here, he’s a version of happy, he wants to be here.
But then I think about him later, after he’s gone home to an empty house or apartment. I wonder if the happiness has faded. Is he lonely here? Does he look around, beer in hand, and wonder why he doesn’t have a wife here? Why any of the five children he’s fathered aren’t dropping by to chat? I wonder if he thinks about what went wrong or why his life has turned out this way. And that’s when I can feel my heart breaking for him.
//
Recently I read the book FATHER OF THE RAIN by Lily King. I knew, vaguely, that it was about a girl with an alcoholic father. And so it sat on my shelves for awhile because I knew I’d need to be in the right headspace for it. But last week I finally read it. And though much of her story didn’t mirror my own - my father wasn’t abusive, he wasn’t angry, and I most certainly never thought I’d be able to “save” him from alcoholism - there were certain sections that had me thinking about my dad.
Particularly as she described a loneliness emanating from her father.
It hit me then - I never thought about his alcoholism in this way. I never wondered if he was happy in the choices he made, or if at the bottom of the bottle he questioned what he had done. And I put the book down, with tears in my eyes, and thought about my dad for a good long while.
//
My dad isn’t the same man he once was. Now that he has alcohol-induced dementia, he rarely remembers who I even am when I see him. It happened just a couple of weekends ago at my nephew’s graduation and 18th birthday party. He told me congratulations on my nephew graduating, and that I had a beautiful home. I realized he thought I was my sister, considering it was her son and her home. But I thanked him anyway and gave him a hug. A roller coaster of emotions happening within me.
Talking to my youngest brother later, we discussed how hard it is to be mad at him when he’s in this state. Though we have different reasons for this, seeing him in this state is really hard. For me, I always come back to the fact that I’d hate to see anyone losing who they are and the life they’ve had through dementia. Never mind the fact that he’s my father, that I am half him. Dementia is a bitch of a disease and I hate that he’s going through this.
And yet… at the same time, what did he anticipate of the outcome from a lifetime of drinking?
So now, I think about him sometimes, wandering the halls of his memory care facility day in and day out. Not certain where he is, thinking about when someone will come for him. I wonder if he is waiting for one of his kids to show up, one of his ex-wives. I wonder if he feels lonely then.
//
In the novel, the daughter tries to save her dad by moving in with him and putting her life on hold to get him sober. As far as I know, no one ever did that for my dad. Should we have? Should we have made more of an effort rather than just cutting him out of our lives, only talking to him a few times a year? Would it have even made a difference?
That’ll be a question that we live with for the rest of our lives now. And so I go back to thinking about him, alone in that bar that he called The Office, and I do genuinely hope that he was happy. That somehow, even when he’d lost three wives and five children, that he was okay with making the choices that he did. I don’t want him to have regrets, because that’s no way to live (or end) a life. He is still my dad after all. And the rest of us, we’re okay, we did okay without him.
This is a beautiful essay. So much wrapped up in your words. The compassion present here is what struck me the most. When we find compassion for the pain someone else experiences, when that someone also causes some of our suffering, that becomes a source of our healing too. And I always love reading about the complexity of holding two opposing feelings in one body because so much of life is like that. Absolutely beautiful essay, Sarah. Well done.
Sarah, this is such a beautiful piece. The line “he’s a version of happy” struck me. What a painful experience for you, both growing up and now in adulthood. As someone with a strained parental relationship as well, this hits home. Thank you, as always, for your vulnerability. (PS If you felt compelled to write a memoir, I would read it in a heartbeat) ❤️