Last week, I had reason to reference my Timeline[1] of Events, a wholly depressing Word doc chronicling my late dad’s life. Currently, it spans 113 pages and runs over 69,700 words. That might sound considerable, but it’s not. Mostly, it’s just a hodgepodge of data from various sources transcribed to a central hub. A time-consuming endeavor that proved taxing on the soul[2] but it needed little creative writing. Research was required, especially when I got to Dad’s medical records, which I found to be the more difficult task. Not intellectually, but emotionally.
I started piecing together this epic timeline a year ago. It was one of the first things I created for this project, born from a desperate need to make order out of chaos. Once I was done building it, I did my utmost to banish it from memory. Checking it last Sunday was the first time I had looked at it in months.
As I sit typing, my decrepit HP printer struggles to spit out the timeline I suddenly decided must exist in hard copy. (I’ve always been a sucker for tactile experiences—you won’t catch this writer with a Kindle.) I wasted more time than I care to admit trying to print double-sided sheets before declaring my smartass ‘all-in-one’ printer a hopeless old fart, unwilling to do what a common duplex could manage in its sleep. I bet my little sister would’ve figured it out. Drats, I just ran out of ink. Figures. I suppose stopping at page 55, the tail end of 2020, is as good a place as any to run out of gas. Things only pick up speed from there; life gets progressively worse for Dad in his final six months, which is why that timeframe[3] takes up more than half the document’s real estate.
My timeline starts in August 1957 with the birth of my daddy, and things turn bleak before the end of the first page.
Granted, I know little of Dad’s formative years, so a lack of information is partially at fault. I’d like to believe his life had more positives before the turn, but as with the negatives in his life, Dad kept his past to himself. His enigmatic childhood was a mystery I rarely tried to unravel. Anytime I asked him questions about his siblings or his parents, he clammed up. Now that he’s gone forever, I regret not trying harder. It’s partly why I’m so adamant that my precious Papa tells me everything he knows about our family history; it’s also why I look forward to seeing Granny at Christmas, so I can collect even more of her honied words.
I can recount the few things Dad told me about his past easily.
The first thing Dad told me was morbid: his eye was nearly poked out by his older brother. They’d been left at home with their older sister, who babysat them from time-to-time. While she was distracted—Dad joked she was probably washing her hair, which had confused little-me, as I’d never just washed my hair before—the two boys snuck outside to practice their stick fighting. Apparently, they weren’t any good. This happened in the early 60s when Dad was young, as all of his school portraits show him with one brown eye and one blue, a consequence of taking his brother’s stick to the eye.
In 1973, my dad lost his dad at sixteen. Dad never spoke about the manner of his death or how it made him feel, but it affected me deeply when he told me about it. I couldn’t imagine losing my dad at such a pivotal age. In the same breath, Dad told me his mom died soon thereafter. In reality, his mom Mary died in 1985 when Dad was 28-years-old, but that short span of 12 years likely felt even quicker to my dad. As the baby of the family, he was likely doted on by his mother. Mary undoubtedly cared a lot for him, if the numerous photo albums she made for Dad are any indication. Dad wrote her long letters while he was away at college, which she always returned with letters of her own. It comforts me to know Mary saw her son graduate, but she never met my mom or her grandchildren through my dad. I think his mother’s death devastated him, but I could be projecting. I did lose my dad at 28-years-old, after all.
Apart from telling me about losing his parents and almost losing an eye, the only other story Dad told me from his childhood was an arbitrary tale about some mischief he and his brother got into one summer. In high school, when I was considering colleges, he added one more tidbit. He told me that when he was my age, he’d wanted to be a forest ranger, not a cardiologist. Something clicked for me then. Dad was never happy going to work early in the mornings, returning home late at night in the same miserable state. He despised being on-call, a necessary, draining part of working in the medical field, and railed against it whenever it was his turn. He hated his job, absolutely despised it, or at least that was the way he acted.
Finding out there was another path for him, a road not taken, tugged at something in my heart. It also gave me hope: here was something I could do for him. Dad had always supported my far-fetched dreams of one day making it as a writer; maybe all he needed was someone to tell him it was OK to put happiness before the bottom line. So, I leaped on this juicy bit of information like a ravenous wolf. (I was rather naïve—some may argue I still am.)
I asked Dad why he didn’t just become a forest ranger instead, already knowing his answer would be the money. It always came down to money for Dad, and forest rangers simply didn’t make enough. I would have been just as happy with a forest ranger daddy rubbing pennies together. I told him that being a forest ranger would be incredibly badass. (Not that saving lives as a doctor isn’t—it just made him miserable.) I suggested he quit the medical field and become a ranger now, as surely he had enough money squirreled away to go do what he wanted and finally be happy. Dad just shook his head and told me I was being silly.
This might be my naivete talking. Growing up with a dad who made money his world, I struggled with that mindset—even though I benefited from it. Saying “it’s just money” is easier when you’ve seen both sides of what it can bring.
All my life, money was a primary topic of conversation in my family. So much so that it is now something I hate discussing. I feel weird around it and refuse to spend it—others’ or my own—unless I absolutely have to, or it’s for someone else or my pets. The irony is not lost on me that the money I so despised growing up, that Dad always put above his daughters, his flesh and blood, now partially lives in my bank account. Now that it’s there, I’d like to keep it locked away forever, safe from all the grabby hands of his past lovers who somehow feel entitled to it. Dad was the only one who had a right to spend it. I still can’t think of his retirement plans without pain—all his earnings, basically what he worked his whole life toward, wasted.
Long ago, Dad gave up his dream so he could pursue the finer things in life, and it made him miserable. It was a costly mistake. Endless waiting, better days on the horizon but never arriving. As retirement neared—his golden years, when he could finally enjoy the wealth he had spent a lifetime building—Dad looked up and realized, too late, that he was all alone.
[1] I first mention my Timeline of Events in the author’s note for this post.
[2] Whether I can actually possess a soul as a non-believer is up to debate, depending on who you ask. I like to use the word poetically. If I were to guess where my soul resides, I’d be torn between saying my heart and my brain.
[3] I also cover the events that took place after Dad’s death, like our experiences dealing with Dad’s “widow” during the probate process. But those things only take up a few pages compared to his last six months alive.
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Yes. He was always playing the game of “when this happens” I will be happy. A dangerous game for all of us.
Agreed, and I know I need to be extra careful not to repeat the bad behaviors Dad taught me (inadvertently, through exposure) growing up.
I worked with and around your father for approximately 10 years. He was highly regarded by his colleagues and his support staff. His humor was what I enjoyed most That and his laid back gentle, hippy personality! Miss him and my heart remains broken for you girls.
I lost my father at 26 (a game warden who hated his job). As a nurse of 20 years, I can say my career has not been what I expected either. I envy those who truly love their career path.
Thank you for commenting, especially for sharing that about my dad. My humor takes after his but there’s no one quite like my dad. For a decade and some change (just really love that phrase), I strongly disliked my job, but it was by no means awful and I was one of the fortunate few lucky to start afresh doing what I’m truly passionate about. I always feel weird saying it that way, ‘course, since I could only quit my desk job after my dad died and left behind an estate. I appreciate what you do and all the endless hard work and hours you put in as a nurse 💗
Finally getting to read a couple of these, which I have missed. Such an interesting but difficult task to look back over a life and to reflect on what was – what might have been – what could have been, etc.
Your writing is so raw and honest – and truly makes me think (and feel) deeply about your father and you and your family.
I am glad to be (finally) reading some submissions, which I have recently missed.
Your writing is so vivid and raw and honest.
What a journey – to look back over a life (our own – or someone else’s).
The condition of “being happy” in life is such a fascinating concept. We are always tugged between “being” and “doing”.
Thank you for the kind words about my writing. Sometimes I worry I’m just a bit too vivid and raw. I don’t think you can ever be too honest, though. It’s much easier examining my dad’s life and making educated guesses about his thoughts and feelings versus diving into my past, which is what I do offline in the memoir. I need this break from peering in the mirror, especially when my past gets overwhelming. I think I’d lose my mind writing this memoir without my blog as an outlet to explore all these emotions, but I might be better off if I kept a journal instead!
My Dear Kenzie,
I feel your pain! I knew your dad quite well. He was a complicated guy. I liked him very much. He had an edgy sense of humor and was both an engaging “friend” and “son-in-law”. We often talked about investment strategies and how much money is needed to save/invest for retirement. He had a good sense about investing. I do agree however that at times he seemed to obsess about making “enough” money. The dark side is that at certain times, his money seemed to be more important than taking good financial care of his loved ones. I don’t need to share the details, but clearly he did not step up to the plate when, in my opinion, he should have. Unfortunately, Your dad’s demons did not permit him to ever achieve real happiness, even though he worked hard, saved money and was well-respected. He could have retired well.
We all have faults and weaknesses of course. Sometimes they include addictions and bad behavior. I think it is always best to remember the good character traits and the good deeds. Let the rest be lessons learned, and then forgotten.
I do hope your journey into all of this through your blog and memoir writing is productive and healthy for you. You are an excellent writer and your writing displays compassion and empathy. It is genuine and authentic.
I also hope you approach the next subject matter of your writing with that same level of authenticity. Love, Papa
Thank you, Papa. I agree that his demons were ultimately at fault for his unhappiness, but there’s likely something else in his past that caused some of his behaviors. We’ll never know now. I’m a naturally curious fella who genuinely wants to know how someone like my dad could end up the way he did, when he had everything going for him. But through this process I’ve realized that I can never know something like that or ever possibly figure it out.