Not enough time

January 22, 2010

There’s not enough time to fix it–to mend over the broken, ripped stitches.Or to make new, luminescent ones.

There’s not enough words–I have to shout just so you will hear me, and even then, I’m abbreviating it so you will get the gist.

There’s not enough ways to talk–talking brings on coughing, which brings on the racking, ripping, burning horror in your lungs bursting up, and the image of you bent over, throwing all your weight into a handkerchief, like your lungs were a companion-docile animal who turns and bites you without reason.Then keeps on biting you.

There’s not enough privacy–when you can move at all, it’s from bed to the bathroom, to the living room chair, in front of a 6 ft screen, surrounded by hutches filled with glassware for guests that never come, plastic moveable tables holding daily pills, various oxygen machines, cough drops, and the remote for the TV.

There’s not enough touching–I can’t get to you to hold your hand. I can’t sit near you to wrap my arm around your shoulder. To do so causes uproars and exclamations, moving of furniture, clucking, fussing, what a production, a chorus of “Are you sure?” ’s. Like touching him could blow him into the breeze like a wil-o-wisp. The danger of intimacy.

There’s not enough time, you tell me. To sort through the 10,000’s of video footage shot over the years, to mark,label, and date the vacations. I need to do that, you say. If I can get out from in front of the darn TV. That’s you, to a T. You say darn, instead of damn. To go through old photographs, send them to the right family member who featured in them. To sort through the cumulation of a life, and preserve it in such a way, that it might be seen through, beyond the veil and illusion that this person marked time, was in history, that this person lived and breathed, loved and lost, witnessed, and was seen by others who love him.

There’s not enough movement-getting you to the kitchen table was a major breakthrough in the house. How on earth can it feel, to have your breath, your chi, the very essence of human life, slowly fight you, getting stronger over you day after day? I can’t even sit on the porch with you and watch the stars.

And what would I say, if I didn’t have to scream it, if I could touch your hand, if your lungs weren’t the enemy, if we had privacy from the well-meaning worrying fuss? How can I tell a man, who’s never raised his voice to me once, how sorry I am, that we are just plain out of time? That the vast canyon of his Beliefs and my Beliefs, that How he was Pushed Away while I was Young, and How I was Raised, all these factors now stare me in the face–as I look helplessly, silently, and lovingly at the man who I called Daddy.

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I worshipped my dad from my earliest memories. I thought he was the sweetest, kindest man I’d ever met. I can still say that, actually. It’s amazing, but true. I was caught on Christmas Eve, gorging on weakly-concealed chocolates stolen from kichen cupboards. I’m talking A LOT of chocolate. His idea of punishment? “Go sit on your bed for an hour.” Seriously?! Where are my books are? And my soft blanket? and the CAT? THAT’S PUNISHMENT?? I was ecstatic. Best hour of my entire.childhood.life.

Mom and I moved out of state shortly after their divorce, and I was devastated. I missed him terribly. He became the beacon in my heart for all good things, a person and a refuge for all my conflicted, angry, impotent feelings that children have when they want control over the crazy events going on around them. I was fighting with the New Stepdad all the time, especially after my sister left home.

I used to go to school, pissed off and fuming, and walk to the payphone, and dial Daddy’s number. I know it by heart, I’ve known it every single day of my life. It’s 805-835-8508. I liked dialing the numbers. I liked knowing that if I needed to, I could reach him. Some days I needed to dial more than once. Or twice. However long it took me to calm down. I never did call him. First of all, I didn’t have change. Secondly, explaining to my mom that I’d called my dad would be a betrayal, and I couldn’t afford to do that in an already divided home. Third, I didn’t trust I could tell my dad without him doing something about it,and he definitely would have done something about it, which would cause more troubles..see Item 2. Fourthly, and this was only admitted on rare occasions to myself, he was too busy, and didn’t want to hear from me.

Eventually, around freshman year of high school, I stopped calling, even on those ghost calls from payphones. I went through some intense experiences in high school (don’t we all), and finally decided that getting impersonal checks on my birthday and christmas was making me acutely uncomfortable. I wrote a long letter when I was 17, explaining that I wanted him in my life, but not in a halfway, distant manner. Either get in or get out. I asked him if he knew I liked antiques? Long dresses? that my favorite color is red?

He responded two months later, and said Yes, he did want to be in my life. Shortly after, he sent me an antique candy dish. I’ve prized this possession above all others in my house for years. It sits in my front living room. Even after its perilous journey, stolen from me by a vindictive former friend, recovered and circulated back through a mutual friend who didn’t know it’s origins..it remains a symbol of beginnings..of love.. and reaching across the distance.

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A few short years later, I found out that Daddy is not my Daddy. He’s not my biological father, and illegedly, he didn’t know this either. I felt lost, and terrified. How did this happen? How can you tell a man, the child you’ve helped raise, sent money to, loved, lost,grieved, and fought back to gain, isn’t actually Yours?

That’s a different story. What happened is that I told him. Gently. He laughed at me “Honey, is this what you’ve been so stressed about when we talk? I had my suspicions you weren’t mine when you were little. But I decided you needed a father, and I could be that for you. You are my little girl, and you always will be. Now, can I please come and visit and we can have a nice time?” I could hear the smile in his voice. The acceptance. The love, and protection. I said, Yes, I will see you tomorrow.

We’ve had the most honest, quiet, sweet relationship since. His family always embraces me, even when our views on lifestyles and choices runs black to white. They include me on email updates, and invite me down constantly. When I called on Father’s Day last year, he teased me about whether or not he was ever going to walk me down the aisle. It was such a fatherly thing to say, I teared up.

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Loving him has never meant sacrificing my own happiness, or having to follow his expectations. Being his daughter has brought me support, love, honesty, grace, and patience. When he has responded in anger, he was pushed into a corner and had to do so to maintain his integrity. His reasoning is solid. We do not see eye to eye on everything, and I haven’t had even remotely the time I wanted to bond further, but I cherish, CHERISH the memories I do have, that wash over me again and again, as he fades from his human experience.

With my Dad