A Daughter's Self-Assessment of Her Relationship with her Father

Me and my dad at the recent 2012 Women's College World Series  tournament in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. A trip of a lifetime for the both of us.  I suspect as time goes on, the significance of this trip and what I learned about myself, my dad and our relationship will have been very much worth it. 

What is it about our parents, my dad in particular, when we, the children, become the adults? 
 
My dad seems to have little interest at this point in the things that are important to me-my training, my blogging, my goals-the very things he used to brag about to his friends and strangers. 

Now he is caught between the parent he was 30 years ago and the dramatically different father he is today-tired, slow, insecure, more inpatient, and what comes across as perpetually cranky-which he denies. 

But is that entirely his fault? Part of his new personae is a result of his congestive heart failure, and this physical transformation has resulted in an emotional  one as well. 

Where is the guy who had such a smile he could light up a room? Where is the guy who was so light hearted? I know it is not entirely his fault that he has changed. I mean, don't we all change as we get older? I don't want to be the same person I  was  30 years ago. Does he? And is it fair for me to expect this? 

Even as I age, I have identified personality traits in myself that bear a striking resemblance to those of my father from which I tend to recoil in embarrassment. How do I reconcile this? 

My dad isn't the same dad he used to be in a lot of ways, but I know that is because he is struggling with his own new inabilities, which confuse him and make him feel helpless.

And while I struggled with all of this during our recent trip to Oklahoma, a trip in which I was doing a lot of taking care of him over the course of 9 days, I realized there is one constant in his parenting that has not changed since I was born.  At the end of the day, his love for me, the only love on the planet-the love a parent has for a child-remains completely and totally unconditional. And if his body would allow him, he would do anything to protect me, dare lay down his life for me.  

Why isn't this enough? Why isn't this the thought that is always in the back of my mind when I want to throttle him? 

I don't know, but I guess I better figure it out, because he won't be around for ever thanking me, and calling me pal, and telling me how much he loves Doug and thinks of him like a son.

Maybe I need to be a bit more mature and use what time we have left together to treat him like an adult,  instead of the child I have started to treat him as. And maybe when he hurts my feelings, i just need to calmly let him know. Or maybe I just need to let him ramble on to complete strangers about his gall stone attack and the trip to the Oklahoma City Medical Center ER, or just ramble onto strangers in general. I mean, I am an adult and I can walk away for moment and later return if I don't want to hear the story for the umpteenth time. 

Maybe I just need to realize that whatever shape or form he's in, he's my dad, and he's alive, and he raised me with a healthy dose of respect for myself and others, coached several softball teams, taught me to ride my first bike, told me a guy would say anything to get in my pants, paid for my entire college education so I would graduate debt-free, paid for my wedding, told me on a daily basis that he loves me and is proud of me, and will love me unconditionally and be equally proud of me until the day he dies. Surely, that should be enough.

And if it's not, how different does it make me from him? And is that really the daughter I want to be?

My Jerry Maguire Moment

I want to be inspired. I crave this.

I want to be creative.

I want to create.

I want to write.

I want to get published.

I want to be an artist.

I want to love what I do.

I want to do what I love.

I want to be a photographer.

I want to wake with an abounding enthusiasm for my days.

I want to dream, really dream.

I want to live in New York City.

I want to feel the city breathe.

I want to do something new.  Something different.

I want to be challenged.

I want to take risks.

I want to find balance.

I want to learn from my mistakes.

I want to be Brooklyn Funky.

I want to paint.

I want to design.

I want to be blissfully happy.

I want to leave the world a better place than I found it.

I want to do something important.

I want to be part of something big.

I want to dream big.  I want to live big.

I want to volunteer.

I want to laugh so hard that I cry.

I want a personal mission statement.

I want to get crazy.

I want to speak fluent French.

I want to be me.  I want to be someone else.

I want to be a rock start at a dinner party.

I want to play the guitar and piano. Again.

I want to sing. Every day.

I want to truly appreciate the bounty that is my life.

I want to make every day count.

I want this.

I need this.  

I will get this.

The life-time memory making power of a softball game.

When University of Kentucky’s Annie Rowlands’ hit sailed down the first base line over the head of University of Michigan’s Dorian Shaw and dropped just slightly into right field, my heart dropped just slightly as well.  Because I knew that meant that Macy Allen had just crossed home plate and the University of Michigan’s women’s softball team’s run for the Regional title had come to an end.  As the University of Kentucky Wildcats jumped around in a euphoric state at home plate hugging each other and jubilant in their accomplishment, the University of Michigan players exited the field, some for the last time, many with tears streaming down their faces.

You don’t have to have been a Big 10 softball player on a team contending for its 18^th consecutive trip to Super Regionals to know how they felt.  If you have ever played a sport and experienced a loss that was never supposed to happen—a team you should have beat, a game you could have won—then you knew how they felt.

For me, it was an ASA regional softball tournament in Pennsylvania in 1982, and despite the fact that it was almost 30 years ago, the memories are just as powerful today.  And as I stood there in the stands of Alumni Field this past Sunday afternoon, tears welled up in my eyes.

From the minute I took my seat on Friday afternoon for UM’s first game, I didn’t just see Jordan Taylor on the mound, I saw Dawn Mycock; I didn’t see Amanda Chidester on third base, I saw Beth Senich; I saw George Terry and Dave Mycock coaching third base not Carol Hutchins, and I saw my father smoking his cigar while coaching first base not Bonnie Tholl; Tracy Coppola was behind the plate, not Caitlin Blanchard; the team in the opposing dug out wasn’t Western Michigan University, it was the Lucky Ladies; and Alycia Ryan wasn’t in right field, I was—Kristi Gilbert, who always played much more emotionally than skillfully.

To be honest, I don’t even remember the opposing team’s name or where they were from.  What I do remember is that like UM, we had already lost to them once.  If we lost to them again, we would take second place.  Although second place would still earn us a berth at the national tournament in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, the thought of finishing in second after placing second at the state tournament a few weeks before seemed absolutely unbearable to me as a 14-year old girl, which, of course, is what happened.  So as I sat in the stands for the first three innings of a scoreless game, I felt anxious for UM—they had already lost to UK once.  If they lost to them again, they would not advance to Super Regionals.

UM finally scored their first run in the top of the fourth off of an error by UK short shop Kara Dill. In the bottom half of the inning, UM’s defense and pitching held UK to just three batters; unfortunately UK returned the favor in the top of the fifth by knocking down batters 8,9, and 1—Alycia Ryan, Amy Knapp, and Bree Evans.

A great defensive play by UM in the bottom of the fifth in which catcher Caitlin Blanchard connected with short stop Amy Knapp to prevent UK’s Brittany Cervantes from stealing second, kept the momentum going and hopes were high for UM as they took their turn at bat. The top of the sixth saw Ashley Lane earn UM’s first hit of the game with a line drive up the middle.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough for UM and the inning ended without any additional runs and two players left on base.

But UM wasn’t in the field for long.  They denied UK an opportunity to score any runs in the bottom of the sixth, and anticipation about extra runs in the top of the seventh by UM were short lived as Marley Powers, Alycia Ryan, and Amy Knapp successively got up to bat and got out.

Unfortunately, the bottom of the seventh started off bad and got worse.  The first UK batter up to the plate, Meagan Aull, sent the ball soaring over the right field wall for a home run to tie the game at one.  After that, back-to-back walks and a hit-by-a pitch walk left the bases loaded with no outs.  Jordan Taylor’s eleventh strikeout of the game for a first out gave me a little bit of hope; and knowing a victory at the end of seven wasn’t possible, I began to prepare for extra innings.  But that dream was short lived when Annie Rowlands got up to bat and placed UK’s fifth hit of the game down the first base line into right field to score the game’s winning run.

For a team like the University of Michigan—with with their season record and tournament seeding—to lose twice in one weekend to the same team, one of the tournament’s unseeded teams, and to lose like that, was just heartbreaking—a team you should have beat, a game you could have won.  And I got a little bit weepy for them and a little bit weepy for myself as I thought back to the summer of 1982.  Unlike this year’s seniors, however, at the time I didn’t know it was the last game I would play with my team—a job change for my dad moved the family to Ann Arbor, Michigan, five months later, just one month shy of the new season.

It seems every time I watch a softball game, whether it’s high school or college, live or on ESPN, I can’t help but reflect on my own experiences as a player.  And to this day, those memories are some of my very best.  And it’s not about the wins or losses, it’s about the camaraderie and the shared experiences with that select group of girls and our coaches when we were 13, 14, and 15 years old.  So perhaps, 30 years from now, as these UM softball players are either sitting in the stands watching their daughters, grand daughters, or just the hometown team lose the game they weren’t supposed to lose—a team they should have beat, a game they could have won—the sad memories of yesterday’s loss to UK will be replaced with happier and grateful memories of just having been lucky enough to share the experience.

Go Blue!

Releasing my inner (and outer) bikini

The last time I truly felt comfortable in a bikini was 1972.  I was four years old.  I had zero body fat.  I didn’t have any boobs.  It was perfect.

Flash forward to 1986—senior year spring break in St. Petersburg, Florida.  This was the first time I can remember wearing a bikini post 1972, but things had clearly changed with my body.  While I was not overweight, I was 17 so I had some body fat.  I also had 34DD boobs, and “those things” on a 120 pound, 5’ 1” frame girl were a freak show.   Thank goodness a few years later—with the support of my parents and the acknowledgement of my health insurance carrier that “those things” would probably lead to excessive back pain over time—I had a breast reduction.

Flash forward to 2008—40^th birthday spring break in Nassau, Bahamas.  Despite a recent weight loss of about 10 pounds, I now had the reverse problem of my senior-year, spring break bikini—the size of my stomach and my boobs had switched roles.  But I bought my first bikini in 22 years and wore it anyway. However, I also took along a tankini as a precautionary measure, I didn’t want to make anyone around me feel uncomfortable.

That was three years ago, and I’ve gained the 10 pounds back.  And despite that fact, I decided to bring that same bikini to Siesta Key, Florida for Spring Break 2011 (It’s in great shape because I haven’t worn it in three years).  And not only that, it is the ONLY suit I brought so I knew I wouldn’t have any other options. 

And you know why I did this?  Because I am exhausted!  I am exhausted of spending way too much time of my life thinking about what my body isn’t and what I want it to be.  If I could add up every second of time I have spent either on my own or with girlfriends talking or thinking about my body image and how I didn’t like it, and used that time for the betterment of society, I think I could solved the following problems:

1)      World peace—not just Middle East, but WORLD peace.

2)      World hunger.

3)      Global energy crisis.

In addition to being exhausted about thinking about my body, I also acknowledged some realities:

1)      I’m over 40 and menopause is just around the corner—actually, it’s on my front porch and knocking on the door.  I will never have the body of a 12 year-old boy or a 20 year-old college sorority co-ed, unless I stop eating and spend all my time in the gym, neither of which sound appealing.

2)      My body is the carbon copy/DNA duplicate of my mothers.  She is the same height as me, actually weighs 10 pounds less than me, but she carries all her weight in her stomach.  Always has, always will.  Why would it be different for me?

Is this me giving up?  I’ve decided it definitely is not!  Nope, it is the complete opposite—this is me accepting me and not worrying about what other people think I look like, and more importantly working on not caring what other people think I look like. Because at the end of the day, it’s just a body and I am so much more than just my body, as we all are. So I’m walking around on the beach with just my bikini and my stomach is not flat, and it does in fact jiggle, and there is a slight crease in the center, and you can see the scars on the side of my body from the breast reduction.  But you know what? I don’t care, and I actually find it liberating.  The emotional weight of my body has weighed me down much more than any excess weight I have ever physically carried around. This bikini has ironically been the greatest weight loss of my life.

Does this mean you’ll find me running around town in just running bras and no shirt?  I don’t think so. One step at a time.  Baby steps. Bikini steps. 

His Body Betrays Him

His day is now broken down into 30-minute increments—30 minutes to bathe, 30 minutes to get dressed, 30 minutes to fill his pill container. 

His body betrays him.

My mother had surgery two weeks ago, and he needs a week to recover. 

His body betrays him.

I do not believe he is capable of living by himself any longer.  He just needs help.

His body betrays him.

A big part of me thinks he should no longer drive by himself, either. 

His body betrays him.

He is only 67—68 in 33 days.  

His body betrays him.

He suffers chronic pain in his stomach and back.

His body betrays him.

His terrible circulation makes it impossible to keep the almost 15 pounds of fluid off of his stomach.  It weighs him down.  He is exhausted.

His body betrays him.

He just bought a new recliner—it helps lift him out of a seated position, because he struggles with the simple acts of sitting down and standing up.

His body betrays him.

He doesn’t have the energy to go to cardiac rehabilitation, which could improve his quality of life.  He has to make decisions.

His body betrays him.

He is too afraid to travel and stray far from his house, so he and my mother did not go to Florida this winter.

His body betrays him.

So much of his confidence is gone.

His body betrays him.

He sits in front of an oscillating heater set at 85 degrees, with a blanket draped over his lap and gloves to keep his hands warm.  Because the cold, winter weather is unwelcoming and makes him feel like a stranger inside his own home.

His body betrays him.

He has relinquished a lot of his responsibility as chair of Muskegon High School’s Class of 1961 50^th year reunion this August. 

His body betrays him.

He will not live to see his beautiful granddaughter grow up. He has learned to love her in a manner even he didn't think was possible.  Her presence has been one of his greatest joys.

His body betrays him.

He sits. He waits. 

His body betrays him.

We hope.  For good days.  For warm days.  For a momentary relief from the pain.  For a laugh.  For a smile. For his eyes to light up like they used to.

His body betrays him.

I love him, I have learned much from him, and I am not ready to no longer hear him call me pal, or tell me he is proud of me, or tell me that he loves me back.  But watching him, watching this man struggle in that body.

His body betrays him.

He is alive.  But it is not the same.  Not for me.  Not for my mother.  Not for my sister. And certainly not for him.

His body betrays him.

Happy Heart's Day!

It's not where or how I would choose to spend the most hallowed of romantic holidays. And yet, the irony not only does not escape me, it comforts me. I am in the family waiting area at the University of Michigan's Cardiovascular Center.

My father is having his second cardiac ablation procedure performed in the hopes that it can help treat his abnormal heart rhythm. The ablation directs energy through a catheter to small areas of the heart muscle that cause the abnormal heart rhythm, and this energy "disconnects" the pathway of the abnormal rhythm in the hope that the heart will be able to sustain a normal rhythm on its own.

Like any medical procedure, there are risks, and the risks here can be pretty high. But I find myself unusually calm and positive.

My father had his heart bypass surgery on Valentine's Day 20 years ago here at U of M and today, I am comforted by the fact that on Valentine's Day, the ultimate day of hearts, his heart is being treated by the doctors and nurses at the 11th ranked cardiovascular center in the country (#1 in Michigan), according to US News and World Report.

I consider this a good sign indeed-two heart procedures, on the day of hearts, at the same heartfastic hospital. It's like the trifecta of cardiovascular care!

So while I am not having a traditional Valentine's Day, participating in the exchange of traditional gifts that are representative of love (like chocolates, flowers, and diamonds-although, note to husband: I would not be disagreeable to finding these when I get home), I am spending the day surrounded by people whom I love in a place whose sole mission is to make healthy and happy hearts for its patients and their families and friends. It is definitely a good day for my heart, and isn't that the ultimate Valentine's gift? Happy Heart Day.

"Heart" Day Sculpture at Cardiovascular Center.

Forgiveness? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Originally posted January 8, 2010

It’s Christmas time and I stand at the kitchen counter of my parent’s new home and look out across the family room and through the French doors of the office as the old man carefully and gently lowers himself into his chair, equipped with a pillow for either his head or back, a blanket, and an oscillating heater blowing 80 degree air into an already warm room.  I am consumed with sadness and I think, “That is not my father.”

My father is not a 68-year old man who looks like he’s in his eighties.  My father is not six feet tall with skin and what little muscle he has left hanging from his bones.  My father is not so skinny that you can see his combination pacemaker/defibrillator protruding from his chest.  My father is not so cold all the time that he has to wear jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt, and a sweatshirt in the sun, in Florida, in November.  My father’s face is not gaunt and his voice does not sound like an old man.  My father does not look chronically fatigued. My father is not so thin that when I hug him I’m worried I’ll hurt him.  My father does not forget things. My father is not so frail that after spending five hours running errands, in which he mostly stays in the car, he has hardly any energy for two days. My father’s movements throughout his home are not labored. My father does not need handicapped features in his home like a bar in the bathroom so he can lower himself down and lift himself off of the toilet or a walk-in shower/tub combo. My father is not dying.

MY father is in his mid-thirties.  It is about 1978 and he is six feet tall and weighs 250 pounds, and he is lightening fast.  He has very strong legs and beautiful calves and they propel him around the bases of the softball field as he sprints from home plate to first and then to second.  He has a curly thick head of hair and a smile and a laugh that will command your attention and light up any room into which he walks.  My father is so warm all the time that it isn’t unusual for him to drive in the winter with the air conditioning on and the window cracked a jar. My father wins the “EF Hutton” award at work because when he talks, people listen. My father has two young daughters and he coaches their softball teams while smoking cigars. My father wears work boots, khaki pants with paint all over them, and a Michigan State University t-shirt that is close to 10 years old, also covered with paint, and he takes my sister and me on Saturday morning errands to the hardware store and bank, and he wants to hold our hands.  My father is a businessman and he works very hard during the week at work to provide for his family.  My father is a family man and works diligently on the weekends to accomplish the tasks on his “Honey Do” list.  My father is very far from dying.

I stand there in the kitchen and fight back the tears, but it is a battle I will loose. Because the truth is, my father is dying.

My father is dying and I am angry about it—and he is the target of my rage. I blame him for dying. I am holding him accountable for the sins of his past.

And yet, I know this is neither right nor fair. How am I going to resolve these feelings so that when he does die, I am at peace with him, with me, and with the two of us? 

Everyone with whom I have spoken about this has said the same thing—I have to forgive him.  Forgive him for everything.  But that doesn’t seem fair, and I struggle with the notion that he gets the slate wiped clean just because he is dying.  And I struggle with the notion of how horrible this sounds as I think it.

At the end of Christmas dinner, my father said he would like it if we would say grace just once over the holidays; but, he says, “I don’t think I could get out three words before crying.”  And as the last few words are coming out of his mouth, he starts to cry.  Three seconds later, I am crying.  Shortly after that, my sister is crying.  I don’t remember exactly what we all said that evening, but I will always be grateful for the insight into my father I gained and the resulting compassion and forgiveness that just seemed to come over me and start to wash away the past.

I learned that night that my father’s identify is very much defined by his role as the provider in the family.  And why shouldn’t it be?  He has filled that role magnificently.  No one in our family has ever wanted for anything.  I grew up in a family where there was always a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food on the table (not to mention a debt-free college education and a beautiful wedding).   I grew up in a family where I was told on a daily basis by at least one of my parents, if not both, that I was loved.  I grew up in a family where I was allowed to express my opinions, even if they differed with my parents.  I grew up in a family where I was taught that prejudice was wrong and being kind and generous to those in need was right.  I grew up in a family where I was on the receiving end of such good advice from my father such as, “Don’t take any wooden nickels,”  “Life isn’t fair.  Fare is something you pay to ride in a taxi,” and “A guy will tell you anything you want to hear to get in your pants.” 

Was there really that much for me to forgive?  In the overall scheme of my father’s love and grace toward me, his sins of the past don’t seem so sinful.  And have I lived such a pure life?  No.  Have I been the best daughter I could be at times?  No. Do I want to be judged at the end of my days for things that happened in my past?  No.  Will I just want to be loved at that point?  Yes, I think I will.  So how can I not forgive my father?  I can not not forgive him.  And so I do.  And I find this gift of forgiveness is also a gift for me.  It allows me to heal.  It allows me to move on. It allows me to love.  It is the best Christmas gift ever.

The next day I watched CBS Sunday Morning with my dad.  He was propped up in his chair with his pillow, blanket, and space heater and I was curled up in the seat next to him.  Frequent conservative Republican guest commentator Ben Stein’s segment came on and although I generally change the channel because I don’t share his outlook on life, I wasn’t at my own home, and quite honestly, I’m glad I didn’t.  For today, Ben Stein, perhaps best known for his role as Ferris Bueller’s science teacher in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, delivered a Christmas message that could not have come at a better time nor been anymore meaningful or personal.

“Why don’t we all clear out our homes inside our hearts and our heads of things that are really heavy and take up a lot of space-resentments and grudges, and anger.  Why don’t we throw away our bad feelings at anyone we feel angry about because he or she slighted us or belittled us? Why don’t we toss away our remembered hurts and aches about people who didn’t treat us right? They’re just people after all.  And they’re made up of all the things that make people maddening, just like you and I are……You’ll be amazed at how much sunnier and roomier it is in your head and your heart if you just get rid of everything that is blocking the light.  Then comes the best part.  As a gift to everyone in your life, give the gift of forgiveness.  It is a great gift.  I like doing it, and it’s really a gift for me.  I’m even going to forgive my self for my usual sins. Just try it.  Throw out your old resentments and give the gift of forgiveness for everyone, even yourself.”

Thank you Ben Stein.  Merry Christmas to my dad, and Merry Christmas to me, compliments of a Jewish, conservative Republican.  Who knew?