Father-Daughter Wounds, Death and Redemption
We may have sight, but we rarely see - truly behold - each other.
Few people get the kind of answers I got recently.
Fewer still get to experience the kind of heart opening reconciliation and reconnection that has occurred between my father and I.
I feel so profoundly grateful.
As you may or may not know, two weeks ago I got on a plane to visit my dad, who was (and is, still) on his deathbed.
I wasn't sure what to expect when I arrived. All I knew was that I had to be there. What has unfolded feels nothing short of astonishing.
While I've written and spoken a lot about my relationship with my mom (and the work we've done to repair), I've instinctively avoided doing the same with my dad. I've always felt protective of my dad, but never understood why...until now.
I want to share this story with you because it has forever changed the way I view human beings, and I hope it will open your heart and mind in a similar way.
My dad had an incomparably magical way with children.
Every child that has ever spent time with my dad found in him a tireless playmate; a fearless cheerleader; the best storyteller; an instigator of innocent mischief; a believer in gnomes and faeries and dragons; and a warm embrace to fall into if you were ever feeling scared or tired or in need of a giant bear hug.
For years I was convinced that my dad's black Mercedes could instantly sprout wings and blast into the sky if we hit the red button on the dash, which my dad insisted was reserved for emergency use only. I wanted to hit that red button so bad!
Eventually, though, we outgrew his whimsical ways.
I still remember the look of sadness wash over his face when I marched up to him at 11 years old and declared "I'm too old to call you papa. I'm going to call you dad from now on."
Instead of getting curious about why he seemed unable to grow into new phases of relationship with me, I began to judge my dad harshly; often directly, and out loud.
When I started my trauma healing at age 24, I just couldn't understand why my own father had felt so absent after I turned 10;, why he wasn't there for me when I needed him most; why he never saw the danger signs.
How did he not notice the obvious, when an adult male neighbor targeted me for grooming and sexual assault just after my 13th birthday? (Predators have special radar for these kinds of things - they know when parents are totally or semi oblivious). A gigantic trauma sized wall erected itself around my heart, and my dad didn't possess the keys that unlocked that particular gate.
Several therapists I went to in my twenties fueled the rage bubbling up inside of me and attempted to direct it towards my parents as the rightful targets of my justifiable blame. This was one reason among many that I quit therapy and turned inward for answers. Blame never felt healing.
What I wanted more than anything was to understand. I wanted answers and shared reality; I wanted authentic connection.
Attempting to find those answers, I initiated many family conversations over the years that always ended in relationship ruptures rather than repair; which left me (and my dad, I believe) more and more heartbroken and confused. Since answers weren't forthcoming, I was left to wonder and guess (like most of us).
Until a month ago, I assumed that my dad's unusual (and often very painful for me) social behavior was due to something he had control over but refused to exercise, like an emotional intelligence muscle he was refusing to flex out of stubbornness or masculine pride.
Then, two months ago, my dad - who had a stroke in 2017, and four years ago underwent amputation surgery of his right leg - started falling nearly every day. Just after Christmas, he asked my mom to take him to the hospital. After a dozen falls, hitting his head hard and bruising his hip a few times, he was starting to get scared. He hoped they could tell him why his balance was diminishing so rapidly.
While I would never wish the experience my dad had in the hospital on anyone, his stay there changed our lives forever. My mom brought him home a little over a month ago, and after two weeks it seemed clear that he was dying.
When I called and told him "I'm coming for you dad. I'll be there (in South Carolina) for you," he replied earnestly "I'll be there for you. You'll be there for me, and I'll be there for you."
"Lisha's here. Lisha's here!"
There he was.
My papa.
Though I could tell his body was emaciated and shrinking fast from not eating for nearly 2 months, his face was still full and lively; his eyes bright; and his presence...his presence was so pure.
From the moment I stepped foot in that room, I was enveloped in the most profound experience of pure presence I've ever felt. This isn’t the same man I’ve known my whole life; and, it is.
Though he's in excruciating pain every day, and often moans or winces uncontrollably, he never complains. The pain doesn't make him bitter or angry or difficult to be around (unless you're uncomfortable with pain). Sitting by my dad's side all week, holding his hand while he met the pain wide awake - without reaching for anything that would numb it - was a profoundly healing experience for me, and a true blessing.
All week, I watched my dad embody real presence in a way I've never been witness to before.
Whenever anyone spoke to my dad from the heart, no matter how much pain he was in, they would have his full abiding attention; if we talked at him without mindfulness, or filled the uncomfortable silences with chatter, his eyes would flutter closed and his attention would drift.
I read him passages of books he loved, and played him songs we used to listen to decades ago.
I knew I got it right when he would say, in his raspy bedridden voice, "this is such a good song." He would hum along in a whisper sometimes, or close his eyes and sway his head gently to the beat.
When I got it wrong, or played too many in a row, he'd tell me in a blunt and honest tone without any judgment: "Turn it off, it's making me nauseous."
Each day it was clear what was approaching, as he engaged in a timeless dance that's coming for us all; a dance between holding onto life, and letting go.
The closer he gets to death, the bigger and bluer and deeper his eyes get.
Sometimes we simply sat gazing at each other.
Beholding him in this way was like looking into the headwaters of life itself.
On my second night there, the phone rang while my mom and I were tending to my dad.
My mom answered, and quickly put the caller on speakerphone.
"My dear brother Hank! It's your brother Lenny.
Gosh it's good to hear your voice. Whatcha been up to the last couple of decades?"
I liked him immediately.
(My dad is one of 12 kids, and I mostly grew up not knowing my aunts and uncles because we didn't live near them).
They hadn't spoken in a very long time, but my uncle is smart and caught on quickly. My dad could take in a lot, and respond only a little.
"We were so close when we were kids. We had so much fun, you and I. We got into trouble too. We were a couple o' scallywags, weren't we?!
And ye know, I was the one who raised ya."
He spoke in an unmistakable Minnesota accent, with so much tenderness and love my heart broke open.
My mom and I were witnessing a once in a lifetime conversation with an uncle I'd met only once.
"There were so many of us kids, we had to raise each other. You know how it was with mom and dad. And you were my responsibility."
His voice cracking in love and grief, he kept going.
"I tried to look out for you, but we were both just kids - even though I was older. Remember when I broke your arm?"
My dad's eyes got big, his eyebrows raised and his hands moved into a palms up gesture of "I don't remember?"
"You were only about 4. We were playing at sword fighting, and we were really going at it when we rolled down that grassy hill at the park, and I broke your arm. Dad was furious with us because of the hospital bill.
I saved your life twice after that - do you remember almost drowning?"
My dad's eyes got even wider as a confused look came over his face.
"Once. I almost drowned once," he said.
"No! You almost drowned twice. TWICE. And both times I had to jump in and save your life. The first time, you must have hit your head on something and started sinking. I looked around and suddenly you weren't there, so I jumped in and had to find you.
The second time, your head got caught between the pine logs they used to make the pier at the lake. Remember? I don't know how your head got caught like that, but that time was real scary. I had to push you hard to get your head out. It's a good thing I was there."
Twice.
He nearly drowned twice!
"I was probably hard on you," said my dad.
"Oh no you don't. Don't you dare blame yourself. I've never held anything against you, you were my little brother and I've always loved you. That was father. You know how he was, and it rubbed off on us boys sometimes. But we learned from it what not to do, and became better men and fathers.
I'm so sorry you're going through this. We're all right behind ya bud. You've always had a good gut sense - how close do you think you are?"
"I'm close, Lenny" said my dad.
The following night, the phone rang again.
This time, I was on phone duty (my mom was gone briefly).
When I saw the caller ID, my heart skipped a beat. It was my half brother. My dad's son. They hadn't spoken in a long time, and had never established much of a relationship.
Lucas's mom raised him and his sister (my half sister); they grew up without their biological father present. While they grew up knowing that we existed (my brother and I), we didn't learn about them until we were in our mid teens.
"Hi Lucas, it's Elisha."
He wasn't expecting me to answer my parent's landline, but I think it was an act of divine grace he called when he did, and that I answered.
Immediately, I put him on speakerphone.
I was standing by my dad's side, and told my brother while looking into my dad's eyes:
"Dad's here. He can hear you, but he's not too capable of carrying on a back and forth conversation. He can listen, and I can be your eyes. He may not have many words, but he talks with his eyes and his face, and with hand squeezes."
Lucas spoke from his heart, and had our dad's full attention. He assured his father that he held no resentment or anger towards him; that he understood certain choices were made, and was at peace with it all.
It was another truly beautiful exchange, with a lot of wide eyed looks, smiles, thumbs ups and hand squeezes for me to report to Lucas.
Then Lucas started asking questions about our dad's sudden health decline. Questions my dad couldn't answer, but I could.
My right hand was wrapped around my dad's while my left held the phone so he could hear the whole conversation.
I told Lucas about the leg amputation, how hard it's been the past 4 years, and the falling episodes that led to the hospital stay in January.
"Lucas, I want you to know something important about your dad, our dad. I feel so lucky to have this information and I want you to have it too. It explains so much.
While he was in the hospital, they took an MRI of dad's brain. They never went over the results with him or my mom because nothing on it indicated the cause of his falling. Instead, his primary care doctor was the one to go over it with them weeks later.
Looking at the MRI, his doctor was shocked. By brain standards, dad shouldn't have been as functional as he's been for years; maybe for life.
According to his doctor, the MRI showed a very old, long standing brain injury along with demyelination of the brain stem. The injury was primarily to the emotional processing center of dad's brain.
This explains everything!
When dad was little, he almost drowned - twice! We just heard the whole story from uncle Lenny. Near drowning alone can cause significant brain damage.
But the second time, which happened when he was nine years old, his head got caught between the log pilings of a pier at the lake."
Hanging onto every word of this story, my dad starts gesturing with both hands, moving his palms quickly together in a smashing motion, with a furrowed brow and concern written on his face.
"Our uncle Lenny saved his life both times! The second time, when his head got caught, Lenny had to violently push dad's head out..."
My dad is now making slamming motions with his hands, demonstrating the violence of the push that saved his life over 60 years ago.
"I know this may feel hard to hear, but dad was sooooo good with us when we were little. I've always wondered why he's SO good with kids, and not as good with adults. Like, he's the best with kids...until they reach about nine or ten years old.
After that, it's like he just couldn't meet us developmentally even if he wanted to."
Astonished, I look at my dad who is nodding his head at everything I'm saying, with a crestfallen face and sadness permeating his whole being.
And that's when it hit me!
My dad can "process" emotions through stories!
He's getting everything I'm sharing at an emotional intelligence level while listening to me tell his story.
He's been in there the whole time, feeling emotions like all of us; he just can't express them with words, like most adults can (not that they do, but that's another story), because he doesn't have the ability to think about them rationally.
The brain is the organ of thinking - we have nerves and senses and the ability to send that sensory data to the brain in order to have something (many things) to think about. Without sensory data, without feelings and perceptions, we would have nothing to think about.
The nerves and senses in my dad's body weren't damaged - only the emotional processing center in his brain.
"Lucas, I think this is why dad had such a good memory - the best of anyone I've ever met - along with such a vivid imagination. He compensated for his deficits with the power of imagination."
"I remember when you were really little."
It was my last night with him.
"What are you remembering, dad?"
"You used to run around the house.
You were so little.
I called you 'my little honey.'
You're not my little girl anymore."
Oh, papa!
I'll always be your little girl.
Yesterday, my mom, dad and I had another heart mending conversation that left us all in tears.
I was telling my parents how utterly humbling and profoundly life changing this knowledge of my dad's brain has been for me.
I asked my mom if it's felt that way for her.
She said yes, it's given her answers to a lot of questions and pain points in their marriage. Then she wondered aloud what my dad would have been like without the brain injury.
Impulsively, I blurted out (lovingly) while choking back a torrent of tears:
"This IS dad!
That brain injury gave him the gift of imagination and memory. He wouldn't have been the amazing magical papa to me as a girl. This is why he loved stories so much, like the entire story of human history, and the story of coins and money, and all of Anthroposophy (the work of Rudolf Steiner). I'm certain that because of his brain injury, he developed gifts and talents that have gone mostly unacknowledged because we didn't understand him. He feels everything, he just can't express his feelings like we do. I bet this is why he loves movies so much! Because they make sense of emotion through story. He was such a great storyteller!
Dad, I hope you finally feel seen.
It would really suck to die without feeling seen by the people you love most."
Summoning near herculean strength from his deathbed on a day he had been mostly silent (according to my mom), my dad managed to loudly and emphatically declare through his own tears (a rare event - I've only seen my dad cry a few times in my life):
"I feel seen!"
My wish for you, for all of us, is to feel seen before you die.
My wish for you, for all of us, is to open your spiritual eyes and really see the people in your life.
To do this, we'll have to cure ourselves of our own very real blindness.
We may have sight, but we rarely see - truly behold - each other.
Instead, we see our own hurts and deficits, assumptions, fears and beliefs projected outwardly.
This experience with my dad has utterly humbled me. Even though he's dying, I don't feel like I'm losing him; I feel as if I'm finally getting him. Only, he was always there if I'd had eyes to see.
My dad wasn't the one refusing to flex the emotional intelligence muscle out of stubbornness or pride; that was me.
I withheld affection from my dad because I didn't understand him, and wanted him to be different. I forgive myself. I didn't know; now I do. And I'll take this lesson with me for the rest of my life.
May we all summon a little more kindness and grace towards the people we don't understand; may we be curious instead of judgmental; may we be loving, even when it's hardest; and may we open ourselves to the many blessings the truth will bestow upon us when it does finally emerge, even if it's painful. Because it probably will be painful; but it will also be beautiful.
What's more real than pain? Love. Pain is an invitation to love more, better, differently. Love opens the door for pain to be healed.
Sending you love today and always,
Elisha