Valentine's Day Number Thirty Seven

“For you will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not” (Father and Son, Cat Stevens). 

My father died on Valentine's Day when I was thirty seven years old. I couldn't go anywhere because of what was happening in the world at the time. I went to work the next day. A couple of years ago I was sitting with some close friends and I was talking about losing both of my parents before I turned forty. One of them asked, “what's that like?” My only response, “un-fucking-describable.” It's weird. I don't know how to describe the feeling that lives with me every day. I get close sometimes, but I don't think I've ever really captured it. 

I don't know why I picked the opening quote only to follow it with my opening line. Most of my dreams were based on the life I left behind. Some other dreams went sideways. But, like life, dreams evolve. Change is the one constant in life. 

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I had expected my dad to die since I was fourteen years old and he lived until I was thirty seven. Because I anticipated this event for so long I'd given a lot of thought about what I'd say about my dad at the funeral and even more thought to the music. I'd envisioned playing a live cover of The Rolling Stones’ Dead Flowers because my dad was a huge Stones fan and because the song told his story concisely. What I'd planned to say wavered from one year to the next, but I knew I wanted to paint an honest picture. 

I didn't want to speak from the hero lenses that most would have expected. I didn't want to speak from the anger either. I wanted authentic truth. The authentic truth when it comes to how I see my dad is messy. Do I talk about the dad who was by my side in the hospital for eight out of ten surgeries, do I talk about the dad I was willing to do anything for, do I talk about the dad that was more like a friend than a parent, do I talk about the dad I was in a band with, do I talk about the dad who projected shame, do I talk about the dad who scared me with his anger, do I talk about the dad who wanted his meds over and above everything and everyone, do I talk about the dad who took more than he gave, do I talk about the dad I admired or the dad I had to defend? What version of my dad would I acknowledge in his passing? “There was no funeral for the sad junkie” (T. J. Kellogg, No Funeral, 2024). 

The answer, as it turned out, was I wouldn't do any of that. Instead, I'd go to work the day after he died and begin the journey of grief and healing. I don't care for Valentine's Day because of what it means to me. I don't actually care for holidays anymore. Not that I'm suggesting Valentine's Day is a holiday – more like a commercial cash machine. But, I don't think we need to divert into the depth of my cynicism about a day that was always complicated for me. 

Knowing what I know about my dad, I don't know how he handled the challenge of having a child with Cerebral Palsy. Parenting is hard in general. My dad wasn't exactly known for patience at any juncture. He had a lot going on in his own right. At the same time I was growing up with CP, he was navigating addiction treatment, and life as the custodial single parent of two. My dad was a father of three, but that's a story for another time. 

Now that I'm an adult and a parent, I look at the early years with a lot of curiosity. Who would I be today if it were not for the journey I went through to get here? I'm not certain of much of anything, except that everything is impermanent. One day, it'll be my children looking back and I wonder will they learn about my CP and my parents from these writings? At this stage of life, I draw a lot of parallels from my relationship with my dad. I actively want to parent differently for my kids. It turns out that's really difficult sometimes, which is why I wonder about a lot that I may never know. 

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Growing up with CP on Valentine's Day wasn't always kind, but I can certainly see where the total gush within came from. Love has always been my highest ideal. What better than an annual day devoted to love to be a day that I remember a number of moments from childhood, from my twenties, and from my thirties. Valentine's Day and my experience of it is a definitive marker of my hope, my cynicism, and my heart. 

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It takes heart to live with CP, it takes heart to keep going when the fabric of your world changes, it takes heart to ride the waves of grief, it takes heart to do more than survive. It takes heart to let go, to start over, to learn from where you've been, to figure out where you're going from here. I have lots more to say about life with CP but the intersection of father and son is an important one in this story. Stay tuned for what's next. My heart still beats. It still hurts. It's been through a lot of healing. The story isn't over.