Time heals all wounds, they say. As time passes, the pain subsides into the haze of memory.
I’ve found this to be untrue, specifically when it relates to a loved one who has passed away. Passed away. What a euphemism that means nothing. A loved one who is dead.
Healing, when it relates to an interpersonal relationship, required both parties to close the wounds. Without both parties, there are a series of unanswered questions, accusations, and perceptions that are frozen in time.
It is possible to forgive the dead, this is true. It is impossible, however, to make up with the dead. “I’m sorry. I love you.” When the person these words are directed towards can’t answer, there is no anesthetic for the pain you feel.
All of this occurred to me at my family reunion two weeks ago. I had been discussing loss with an aunt and a few of my cousins. Those of us sitting at the table understood, for the most part, how it felt to lose a parent. We couldn’t help but wonder how much our respective parents would feel to see their family together like they were.
In the following weeks, I’ve been giving some thought to what we lose when someone dies. How that person, our relationship, is frozen in the ether of time. Never changing, never growing, always stagnant in our minds. Our understanding of that person, the motivations, the misunderstandings, the perceptions cannot evolve. They cannot change beyond the mind that we had at the time of their death. These things cannot change because we change but the object of our loss doesn’t. We change, but our relationship is forever frozen in toddlerhood, teenaged angst or young-adult self-centeredness.
My father died nearly 25 years ago. I was five. Eighty percent of my life has been spent without a father. Fifty percent of my older brother’s life was spent without a father. All of my siblings fall somewhere in between. But the bottom line is, at this point of our lives, we’ve all been fatherless for more than half our lives.
Half our lives. Is there anything in your life that has been there for half of it? Imagine that. It’s a long, long time.
When dad died, none of us knew him at all. We knew pieces of him. Good pieces and bad pieces. But we carry with us only a character sketch of who this man was. We know that he liked war movies and cowboys. He listened to Vaughan Monroe and watched football. He smoked and drank. He told tall tales. He was stern. Maybe too stern.
But none of us know for sure. None of us actually know who our father was. What was important to him? What where his dreams? His plans? What made him tick?
Imagine if your children’s memory of you was frozen today. At this exact moment when you said goodbye to them. What would they think of you for the rest of their lives? Did you have a fight? Was there a long-standing rift between you that you figured would be resolved soon? If today was the end of that relationship, that rift may never heal. It may just be the result of a teen-aged angst and rebellion, but in their mind they will always see you through the eyes of a teen. That perception will never change because you will never change.
I know my father was a human being. I know he hurt and laughed and feared and longed like the rest of us. But in my mind, and probably most of my family’s, he was an archetype. He was a “Dad”. That was his job and he was doing it. Being stern with one kid, loving to another. And we, as kids, were doing our jobs. Being resentful at one age, indifferent at another, adoring at another.
Our relationship with our father was at varying stages when he died and they never were allowed to come to fruition. Not like with our mother. We got to know her as she was, outside of her role as mother. We got to know what made her tick. And she with us. She knew us as adults, not just kids. But we didn’t have that luxury with Dad. He was gone too quickly.
So now each of us has an archetype in our heads. The myth, the hero, the disciplinarian, the ogre, the non-entity, the guy who didn’t understand. And in his mind we were children who needed to be raised.
And it’s not fair. It’s not fair to us and it’s not fair to him.
I know that each of my brothers and sisters view my dad differently. I look at him as this mythical creature still. One who could fly and break through brick walls and conjure tigers out of closets. Some of my siblings see him as they did when they were teens. And they may still carry anger. Others yet see him as they did when young adults and they may regret not stopping and finding out, did he like his job? What did he really want to do for a living? What was he going to do in retirement?
We didn’t know him and he didn’t know us. He’ll never get a chance to know us now, lest he’s watching from wherever he may be. And our chances to know him are dwindling. His best friends and siblings are dying. His wife is gone. His parents are gone.
We know so little.
Life is short. And we spend so much time focusing on getting our kids through life without them being harmed or making horrible mistakes. But in the process we don’t get the chance to know each other as we really are. We don’t relate to one another on the level of human beings, but instead we relate through our roles. Father, son, mother, daughter. These are only roles we play. Break out of them. Try to understand each other for yourselves. Ask your kids some questions. Offer some answers of your own.
Let us learn from each other’s experiences and mistakes. Let’s learn from our desires and fears.
Don’t let life slip you by. Not your life, not your kids, not your parents. It is my sincere hope that you never have to look back on a relationship and ask yourself, “I wonder if they liked their job. I wonder if they had hidden dreams. I know I do.”
Because now that I’m thirty, gaining on my dad’s final age, I wonder to myself all the time. I look at what I fear, what I miss, what I yearn for and I wonder. I wonder if he felt these same things.
With 25 years, and counting, between us, a canyon of time, I’m running out of opportunities. And I’m learning to live with the idea that I never actually knew my dad. I could pick him out of a line up, but I could never identify his favorite food, his favorite book or his dream job.
Don’t let yourself be an archetype. Share with your children and allow them to share with you.
People often ask me, “How do you think of some of these things you write about? When did you get to be so reflective?” Here’s my answer. I’ve always thought about these things. I’m just getting old enough now to have the words for them. Since I was five, I’ve had nothing but time to think . . . Time can't heal the wounds. But it does provide you with the opportunity to consider them.
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