Episode 55: Forgiveness

Forgiveness is a hard reckoning. It requires an honest examination of the sins against you, their long-term impact, and the other party’s efforts to make amends, if any.

I am seething with anger after Dad forgets our lunch date, the only one we’ve ever had. But I eventually recognize that my anger has no effect on him, just on me. Every step of the way in our lives has shown me that Dad will never be able to meet my expectations. He can’t make amends for mistakes he doesn’t know, or doesn’t acknowledge, he makes.

I grapple with a lifetime of hurt and finally realize I have only one choice. I can accept my father for who he is and stop trying to make him dance to my tune. This path allows me to let go of the anger and the pain.

Forgiveness may be a balm upon your spirit, releasing you from the pain and anger you carry with you.

Or, I can cut him out of my life. This nuclear option may remove the source of anger but it will be smoldering within me all my life.

And Dad will never know either way.

I decide to forgive my father. This forgiveness lives in my heart and has no need for outward expression.

Over the years, this approach bears fruit. When I’m looking for my first house, my stepmother Mary is the real estate agent. Once I’ve picked a small townhouse in South Arlington, she says she and Dad want to give me $5,000 for the down payment. I almost fall out of the car, I’m so surprised.

Everyone wants to see the townhouse before the deal closes. Tyler is there, Mom and John, and of course Mary. John, as usual, is in a Brooks Brothers suit and is sitting on the couch. He looks out the front storm door and says, “Oh, here comes the handyman.”

Oops. It’s my father with his tool box, coming to check out the place to make sure I don’t get gypped. By now, he looks more and more like an aging Mickey Rooney.

Every now and then in the spring and summer, I’ll find a clump of Sweet William or Forget-me-nots or some other flower on the edge of my tiny deck. Dad’s been here, bringing flowers from his country cottage garden and sneaking away before he’s seen.

When my husband and I buy a bigger house on Greenbrier Street in Arlington, the sale of our townhouse falls through, affecting a long chain of buyers and sellers across the country. Dad steps in and buys the townhouse. It ultimately goes to the same buyer but it gets us out of a nasty jam. We are totally stressed out. Dad thinks it’s funny.

Early on in the Greenbrier Street house, the garbage disposal breaks. Dad and Mary live only a few blocks away so I call him to ask if he has a plumber he likes. He makes me describe the problem, then says, “Why don’t I come take a look at it?” I can almost hear him tack on, “little lady” to the end of the sentence.

It’s amusing watching my now tubby father lie on his back and push himself into the tiny space below the sink. He’s under there for 15 minutes, then scrabbles his way back out.

He sits up and says, “You need a plumber.”

The biggest impact on my relationship with Dad is when I meet my husband-to-be, Perry. Perry is a minerals economist while Dad is an agricultural economist. The two of them can talk shop. Dad may be more comfortable with Perry than he is with his own sons. He is one step removed from tricky emotions. From this point on, Dad is much more relaxed with me. Perry has taken the pressure off of him.

By now, Dad’s in terrible shape. He’s never quit smoking and he’s the most prodigious drinker I’ve ever known. He is overweight and has a terrible cough that broadcasts emphysema. Finally, he is diagnosed with a very bad heart condition. Perry and I see Dad four days after he receives the news. He still doesn’t have the medicines he’s supposed to take.

“Well, maybe it’s not as serious as they thought, if they haven’t gotten me the meds,” Dad says hopefully.

As we leave, Dad tells me he’s glad we’ve gotten closer, and that he loves me. He gives me a hug that cancels out the years of pain and regret. I know we’re not really closer. Dad’s just more relaxed with Perry around, but I’m grateful for the sentiment.

Turns out he tells all of his children he loves them before he dies.

Dad receives his medicine one week after seeing the doctor and the specialist.

I have trouble falling asleep and when the phone rings at 2:00 a.m.

Dad has died of a massive heart attack. He was 67, the same age I am as I write this.

The rest of this second family follows suit, all dying young. David is 42 and Mitchell is 52 when they die. Their mother Mary holds out until 70.

A couple of years before his death, my father has every tooth in his mouth pulled. He is fitted with dentures that are a brilliant white, and he is very proud of them. Perry and I both get the tour.

When he dies, we’re all trying to help Mary through the first hours of her grief. She begins to rant about the teeth—they absolutely have to be with his body at the funeral home. He wasn’t wearing them when he died. Jake agrees to take them. Mary says they are in a brown bag in the kitchen. I find it and give it to Jake, and he’s off in a shot, happy to have something to do.

About 35 minutes later the phone rings. I’ve given Jake the wrong bag, it’s full of medicines. He’s coming back. I locate the correct bag—in the dining room—and hand it off to him at the door, in an effort to keep the knowledge of this hitch from Mary.

An hour later, Jake returns. Something is wrong. He takes me into the small kitchen and whispers that the funeral home won’t take the teeth, because all the metal in them can’t be cremated with Dad.

“What did you do with them?” I ask.

“I threw them in the trash can out in front of the funeral home. Mary never needs to know."

And she never does.