Less Than a Handful

Five. That's how many fingers are on one hand. Or Four and a thumb if you prefer to fee it that way. What does this have to do with my dad? Well, sadly, five would be a greater number than the amount of times I remember telling my dad I loved him before he passed. Less than a handful of times in over twenty- four years on this earth with him. Even more sad is that the number of years I could have told my dad those words and meant it are even less. In fact It wasn't uncommon for me say that the only thing my dad ever did right was teach me how not to be a father to my future children, and that I hated him. So, the story of my dad begins in March of 2021, just nine months before I said goodbye to him. Why? Because that's how long it took for me to finally get to know the man I called my dad.

My dad was a complicated person to say the least. He never knew how to express love. Not to say he didn't have love. He loved many things. He loved guns, and trucks, and grilling/smoking for everyone. And I know that that he loved his family. He just never knew how to express that. In March of 2021 my wife and I were getting ready to move halfway across country. At this point it was going on months, I'm not sure exactly how many, since my dad and I had spoken a word to each other following a disagreement. I finally had decided I couldn't just leave things the way they were. So I asked my dad to sit down with me and have a talk. I remember the look of excitement in his eyes when I said those words. we sat down and discussed what needed to be said and went about our day. I remember how excited he sounded the night before my wife and I were to leave. We needed to stay the night at my dad's that night to close on the house we had just sold the following day. He suggested we take the dogs for a walk. I agreed and we gathered the four dogs we were going to let drag us around the dirt roads that stretched for miles outside my dad's home.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. The moment we started walking was the moment My dad began to spill his guts. He apologized. Not just for the argument we recently had, but for everything over the last twenty-four years. He sounded sad when he admitted to me he knows he was never the father he wanted to be for us. He tried his best to explain to me everything on that walk that he struggled with and how he never meant to be the dad he had been to us. He told me he was never sure how to show his emotions or to express that he loved us, but tried his best to protect us from making the same mistakes he had made. He even admitted that in doing so he only made things worse. That night was the first night in I don't know how long that I told my dad I loved him and actually meant it.

The following months were hectic to say the least. After leaving the following day to our new home, we ended up moving back just six months later at the end of August. What was supposed to be a fresh start for my wife and I ended up being one of my greatest regrets. We were both happy to be back. Over the next couple of months I spent a lot of time at my dad's house. But not so much with my dad. Even though We talked more we still didn't do much as father and son. I mostly spent time with my grandmother who lived with him at the time.

Then late in November, my dad became sick. I saw him less and less because he didn't want to get us sick and before I knew it he was being rushed to the hospital. I tried to visit but he was being quarantined. I wasn't allowed to go see him, but my wife, who worked at the hospital was able to get in the room. She started a video call so I could see him. I had never seen my dad so weak. I remember breaking down and being unable to speak to him through the tears. My wife sked me if there was anything I wanted to say to him, and that was the second time I told my dad I loved him. My wife told me to wave to him, knowing I couldn't say anything else. I remember so vividly my dad weakly raising his shaking hand and tiredly waving back to me. He looked at the phone and said the last words I ever heard my dad speak, "You will never know how much I love you." The call was ended and I prayed harder than I had in God knows how long that my dad would pull through. I promised I would spend more time with him and be a better son.

Within the next couple of days he was put on a ventilator, and things only got worse. Every day something else was declining. I remember sitting at work and getting the call from my step mom that it was only a matter of time. I numbly walked to my car and got in. Driving to the hospital that day was a surreal experience. My dad had always been such a strong, bull-headed person. There was no way something like this was going to take him out. I walked in the room where he was being ventilated and knew I was wrong. His body was swollen and his body jerked with every push of air. I grabbed his already cold hand and once again couldn't hold back the tears. For the third time I told my dad I loved him. The next day, December 23, 2021, I received the call. My dad was gone.

I included a bunch of different time frames and numbers in my telling of my dad's story. Nine months, two months, six months, three times I told my dad I loved him, and so on. To you all they are just a part of the story. For me they are a cause for a lot of regrets and pain. For me they are opportunities I had to be a better son and to take more time to spend with the man I called a lot of nasty things in my twenty-four years of life, but who, in the end, I was proud to call my dad. So now when I visit him, I stare down at his name carved in the stone slab and talk to the wind. I tell it everything I should have told him when he was here. Typing this story for you all to read is more than just a challenge entry for me. It's a coping mechanism. A way to get the guilt and sorrow off my chest. And a way to honor my dad. I know it's too late to tell you this in person, but, you will never know how much I love and miss you, dad.