9. Hashing things out with my dad

In February, my grandfather died.

I remember getting a call from my father, with whom I was barely speaking in those days, and ignoring the call as per usual. He left a message. I listened to it. He sounded shaken up, said it was important that I called him back.

I heard the news from my cousin first, actually. I didn’t know how to feel. I hadn’t spent much time with grandpa at all. But after hearing so many people share so many memories of him, I began to feel like I’d missed out on knowing this awesome man.

I was kind of going through it anyway for other reasons and didn’t know if I could deal with more complicated feelings on top of that. But what was really worrying me was the prospect of seeing my dad for the first time in 6 years. I had no idea what to expect. The last time we saw each other, I was fighting myself not to curse him out because he’d made me so angry. When I got home, I cried. Hot, bitter tears of hurt and frustration.

Yeah, our relationship was strained to put it mildly.

Still, I’d missed him. Whatever our problems, I still loved my daddy to death and thought he was generally a good guy.

When he got into town he called. He told me he was feeling guilty for not spending enough time with his father when he was alive and especially when he was sick. I just listened and remained supportive.

I had knots in my stomach when the day of the wake approached. I made my way up to the Bronx to the church where the service was being held. Lo and behold, the very first face I saw when I push through the door was that of my father’s. I smiled instantly, wide and toothy like a kid. We embraced and I was no longer nervous. In my heart, I was happy to see him. My baby sister was there too and we hugged for a long time. Then the three of us went in  and sat together. It was an emotional night but an eye opening one. When all was said and done, Daddy and I promised we’d make a better effort to see each other and talk more. He’d be in town for a few more days and we’d link up he said.

But then that was it. I didn’t hear anything more from him until he’d already left town.

I was back to being pissed. And I was determined not to sit on it this time. I’d bitten my tongue for too long.

I told him originally that I wanted to talk on the phone but then almost immediately decided against it. A phone call wouldn’t accomplish anything but making me more angry. So I did what I do and I wrote instead. I wrote a long email in which I oultined they way I’d been feeling for years.

There’s a saying that goes “you can’t fix what you won’t face”. I think there is truth to this. And I’m a firm believer in sometimes opening wounds and letting them bleed in order for them to heal properly. My email was the equivalent of ripping the half assed scab that had formed over the still unheald wounds between me and my father. I let it all out, for once not caring if what I said would hurt him or make him angry. It was time to get real, and, after losing grandpa, I knew it couldn’t be put off any longer.

I thought long and hard for a minute after I was done. Then I said “fuck it” and hit send.

I felt so. much. better. And I knew that even if the outcome was bad, at least things weren’t sitting heavy on my heart anymore.

But I didn’t think the outcome would be bad in the end. I had faith that deep down, underneath all the shit, our love would carry us through.

He responded a couple days later and we went back and forth through email for awhile. The conversations we had were difficult and uncomfortable. But at least we were talking.

Baby steps, you know?

We’d go on to reconcile pretty much fully over the next six months or so. We agreed to leave the past in the past and move forward. When I saw him some six months later, I could really feel that a lot of the tension between us had dissipated and that we could go on about the business of being father and daughter. That made me feel really good.

Sending that email was hands down one of the best things I did this year.