First Father's Day - Chapter 8

Father’s Day had always been a very hard day for me. As a child it was confusing. The previously mentioned father’s days crafts that were churned out in Elementary school or Sunday school, which were supposed to be a celebration of fathers, made for fathers, addressed to fathers, but then given to a grandfather that freaked when I called him father...it was perplexing. And over time, painful. The older I got, the more I dreaded the day. It became slightly easier when I had kids of my own and they could celebrate Father’s Day with their dad making it easier to ignore my own fatherless state. Nonetheless I didn’t like going to church on those Sunday’s - who needed to hear about how great fathers were when I didn’t have one. I didn’t need salt rubbed in that old wound. Nor did I care to hear about God - the 'father to the fatherless'. Try as I might, I had never been able to address, communicate or get my head wrapped around God as my Father. It was a theoretical idea at best and it never found a place to land and take root in my heart, soul or mind.  

But now I suddenly lived in a new era. I had a flesh and blood dad. And as that first Father’s Day on the calendar was approaching I struggled with what to do. We were clearly still in the beginning get-to-know-you stage. I referred to him as ‘Don’. He ended his own emails with his first name - not with Dad.  How could I celebrate the father he had been to me when there was nothing to celebrate yet? He had been kind and lovely in the short time I had known him but we were still, essentially, strangers. I struggled with what to do. Do I send him a greeting? Buy a card? It all seemed so forced and false. Disingenuous. 

I spent Father’s Day in tears. 

I was confused as to what to do and scared that by not acknowledging this day I would hurt him and push him away. The day after Father’s Day I emailed him and apologized for not sending him a greeting. I hoped it would not hurt him or anger him. I hoped it would not hinder any future relationship with him. Here's part of what I told him:   

“I hope you had a good father’s day. I apologize for not contacting you yesterday... I think I've mentioned before that getting to know you has been quite overwhelming. It was not a scenario I ever thought would happen so I wasn't prepared for it. So, when this father’s day came around, I have to admit, I found it quite confusing. I felt the pressure of convention to wish you a happy father’s day, but I also realized that truthfully, that is not a relationship we have. That is not to say that it is not something we could develop. I hope we do. Like you said - "it's never too late". Father's Day has always been troublesome for me for many years. But, I would like to say this:  I am very thankful that I found you. And very thankful for the person you are. I could tell on that first meeting that you were a gentle and lovely soul who was a terrific father to his two daughters, and to his granddaughter. So I am thankful for that.  And thankful that I know you now. I know you are still healing and seem busy but maybe before the summer gets too far gone, we can spend some time together.”

His reply felt like perfection:

“I understand your emotions about Father's Day and I certainly never expected to receive greetings from you for that event. That is something that has to be earned and I have a long way to go...to ever earn that honor.

I look forward to getting to know you and your family better and to developing a relationship that is comfortable for both of us. I regret that I got sick this spring because I think that has stalled our process of connecting with each other...

I would be happy if we would never have to feel "Pressured” to do or say anything to each other but instead would be comfortable enough to be free to tell each other what is on our mind... It has been a blessing for me that we have met and We do need to spend some time together.”

I felt relief wash over me and the burden of worry lifted from my shoulders. And yes, I cried when I got his email.   

Maybe next year I could celebrate what it was like to have a father in my life.  

On June 26th my dad and Norma came to the city for a meeting. He was still recuperating from his surgery but was doing fairly well nonetheless. I remained anxious around both of them, in part because I had yet to tell them that my other life was in shreds - and I was scared about what they might think. However, when my dad emailed to say he was coming to the city, he invited me and John to join them for dinner. It was then that I finally had to confess, via email, that I was now separated since the last time we had all been together. He told me he was sorry to hear that. I met them for dinner several days later. We were still getting to know each other but with each visit I was incrementally becoming more comfortable. After dinner we walked back to their hotel and as we stepped into the lobby my dad met a man he knew and went up to him to say hello. As I stood to the side with Norma, my dad turned to introduced us. Gesturing toward me, I was surprised when he said: 

“And this is my daughter Annette.” 

It was the first time I had ever been introduced as anyone’s daughter. I had never been a daughter before.  And it felt strange but kinda good.  

That night, as we visited in their hotel room, my dad and Norma gave me a green folder. It was a “starter pack” to aid in the process of getting to know my new family. In it were pictures of my dad from when he was a small boy and through the years. Included were pictures of my half-sisters and my niece and nephews as well as a fairly recent family reunion. Photo's of the family farm - past and present - were also in the packet. Part of my history. There were other photos of my paternal grandparents including one which was of my grandmother, in her early years, with a guitar in her hand. It reminded me of when I was a teenager and Dar and I would play our guitars for youth group meetings or around the campfire. My grandfather Lorne seemed to have some spunk back in his day with a picture of him standing on the back of his horse “Bird” in a pair of fancy chaps. In the packet was the biography he had written of his life; “The Years As I Saw Them”. I was now able to read about the history of my family. Who was who and how they ended up on the family farm in Gull Lake, SK. The last line of my grandfather’s story made me laugh.

“After all these changes, I am still around and plan to tarry a while to see what the hell comes next”.  

I kind of wished he could have lived long enough to witness my arrival on the scene.  I have a feeling we would have gotten along famously.  

After a couple hours of visiting, I got up to leave. I didn’t want to tire my dad out and I had to work in the morning. He walked me from the room to my car and it was then that he asked me about my separation. It had been 6 months since I had been separated and I had kept that information from him for many reasons. Given the newness of our relationship. Given his surgery. The truth was, I didn’t want him to think I was a mess.  I was - but I didn’t want him to know that. However the cat was now out of the bag. He greeted the news with such compassion. He asked if I was alright.  I said yes. But I was not. When I told him I was living separated under the same roof as my husband, he asked if I was safe. I said yes. But I was not. I didn’t want him to worry. That was my problem to work out. He hugged me and said if there was anything I needed,  just let him know. I said I would - but I had no intention of coming to him. I couldn’t. I simply was not good at asking for help from anybody. 

When I got home that night, I texted David and told him that I had been introduced to someone as my dad’s daughter that night. His reply was so encouraging.  

“You need to realize how wonderful for him it is that you have come into his life.”

That was hard to fathom. Hard to get my mind around and harder still to let it sink into my being.  Nonetheless I sat with that knowledge and tried to let it seep into my heart, mind and soul.

As I sat at home that night and looked over the packet of pictures again, I studied the faces of each person. All my friends and co-workers had asked me the same question: were there similarities between me and my dad or half-sisters? I truly did not see any. Except for one. The pictures of my dad as a toddler were remarkable. His round face and chubby cheeks with the dimples. I had seen those somewhere before. On me. And on my grandkids in particular.  

My dad and Norma had obviously given some thought about how to introduce and integrate me into their family and it occurred to me that I should maybe return the favour. So the next day I started to write a little mini-biography of my life and created a newsletter for them to read. Basic information. People and places that were significant to me. Highlights. And some (really cute) pictures of me as I grew. I emailed them the finished product. I had been honest about myself and hoped that nothing I had written would turn them off. I was afraid they would in some way think I was weird. I was afraid that something about me might give them pause. That they would judge me. I was, personally, in the worst place in my life I had ever been, so - in particular during these introductory stages - I was expecting rejection at any moment. Anticipating it. And every time I revealed a little more of myself, I wondered if this would be the moment they would put on the brakes. I would imagine them thinking:  “We’ve had enough of this train wreck” and regret the day they ever opened their lives to me.  It would take a long, long time before I would be able to entertain the thought that they might actually be learning to love me.

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