My Dad

My earliest memories of my Dad are from pre-school. I was either three or four and he would visit the school in his police car teaching all of us about how candy and medicine can look a lot like each other and we should never ever eat anything without knowing for sure its okay. I was always so proud of him in his uniform. With his busy police schedule he was often gone at night til after I was in bed and I loved getting to see him at school. One time he wasn't able to make it because of police stuff, he was able to come for the afternoon group though. I was babysat in the afternoons in the house just up the drive from the church where the pre-school was. When he drove in Jerem Feltman (boy who I was babysat with) and I peeked around the corner of the house. Of course my dad saw me as as all the afternoon pre-school kids were around the police car he got on the radio loudspeaker. "Molly M------, get down here!" I was thrilled of course and ran down to see him. Most of my early memories are like this, quick snips. He was busy, I was young. I also remember when I broke my arm while my mom was in Hawaii and he took me to get the cast put on. He and my brother and sister teased me that I had this funny new purse and why would I keep my arm in it. I thought my dad was a hero and the smartest guy in the planet. He was fun too. He drove for a field trip to the airport when I was in first grade and I remember him singing with us in the car. When I was in third grade he started working on the North Slope, being away for two weeks and then home for two weeks. Even though I missed him he was always there for concerts, plays, dance recitals and important holidays. I made him a card one year that said, "I love you little, I love you big, I love you like a big fat pig" My sister and I still joke about that card. I loved my dad, and I know he loved me. As I got older it was harder. He wasn't there all the time. We had two sets of rules at home, one set when dad was home, one set when he was at work. It was also like I had two dad's. My sober "good" dad when he was at work and all conversations happened on the phone. And the alcoholic frustrating dad who spent all his time at the Moose Lodge.

That’s something I could never understand. How could he not drink on the slope for 2 weeks at a time, sometimes longer. Yet when he was home he couldn’t stop drinking.

I always knew. It was right there in front of me, but I never acknowledged it. One time in high school my dad was picking me up after I had stayed late to work in the photography lab. I was excited about the work I had done and wanted to show him. The moment he got out of the car I could see how much he had been drinking and I knew my classmates would see it too. I was embarrassed, and it forced me to admit that my dad was indeed an alcoholic.

Since graduating from high school and moving out of state I have been largely out of touch with him. He came for my wedding, walked me down the aisle. But we didn’t talk much. Calling him on the phone was difficult, if the timing wasn’t right he would be too intoxicated for the conversation to make any sense.

I called him to tell him he was going to have another grandchild and he cried. He was so happy. He loved his grandson long before he was even born. And once Miles was born my dad would call, and sometimes was sober when he did, and ask about him and called him Inches, “because he wasn’t big enough to be Miles yet”.

When Miles was 8 months old I took him to Alaska to meet his grandfather. It was also a good bye in a sense. My dad had been drinking way too much and eating way too little. He was in the hospital, under nourished and very sick. By the time I got up there I didn’t know what to expect, but I wasn’t sure if I would ever see him again so I made sure to take Miles with me. He was home by then, skinny but doing ok. He wasn’t drinking much, but he was still drinking and of course smoking like a chimney. I basically told him that I really wanted him to get to see Miles grow up and that in order to do so he would have to stop smoking and drinking. I wanted him to be able to teach Miles how to hunt, and to take him fishing. I also knew that would never happen. But I hoped.

That was June of 2006.

Since then my dad and I have talked perhaps 5 times. He remembered my birthday. He would call very rarely and see how Miles was doing. It was like talking to a stranger every time. Since I had seen him he was diagnosed with Addison’s Disease which was very controllable if he would remember his medication. If he didn’t remember he would pass out. Hitting his head, knocking out his teeth, bleeding everywhere. He was still drinking, occasionally making an attempt to go to rehab, but never did.

He called me in early January, left a message. He wanted to make sure we weren’t floating away in the heavy rains we had been having down here. He sounded drunk in the message and I never called him back.

On January 21st I had gone shopping with a couple of my coworkers. On the way back to the museum my phone rang and it was my brother. I had just seen him, he and his wife had visited, so even though he never calls me I didn’t think it was too strange.

“Dad’s gone” is all he said. He was crying.

“gone?” – me

“He’s dead” my brother says, sounding nearly hysterical

I don’t know really what was said after that. I came back to work, organized a couple of things and went home. Headed to Alaska the next day. That’s another story.

Since then I have cried, been angry, kinda bitchy really. I have run the whole gamut of emotions. I don’t regret the last 2 ½ years where my dad and I really didn’t talk much. I had to have it that way. There were too many times I was disappointed by him not being there. If I accepted the fact that he wasn’t then I couldn’t be hurt. What I didn’t really realize was how much I hoped deep down inside that he could change and I would have a dad again. I see it now with how often I see or hear things and think how he would have enjoyed them. Mitch and I visited Depoe Bay over on the coast the other weekend and I realized how every time I visited I would think about how much my Dad would have loved it there, with the harbor and all. I always thought that someday he might come back to Oregon and I could take him there. But he never did.

I loved my dad, I always will. I imagine some day I might figure out how to deal with these emotions I have been having. How do you ever accept the death of a parent, especially when they were only 66 and shouldn’t have died yet?