A Second Heart

Like many, I grew up in a broken home. My parents divorced when I was three. I don't remember much, but what I do remember wasn't pretty-many fights, many tears, lots of yelling. During one heated argument in particular, I remember bringing my tiny Nerf baseball bat upstairs, knees trembling, begging them to stop. I think it worked, but I doubt out of intimidation-more likely pity or sadness.

When my dad left, my mom raised my two sisters and me. She was a single mom on an elementary teacher's salary. I don't remember many fancy toys or vacations, but I don't recall being hungry either. Most importantly, I remember being loved, so she did a pretty stand-up job. But this isn't about my mom.

My dad moved back in with his mom, and we would see them occasionally. I enjoyed spending time there, and I adored my grandma, but he always made me uncomfortable when he would talk badly about my mom. To him, everything was her fault. Thankfully, even though I was young and impressionable, I never saw it that way. Pretty early on, I began to understand that he had a twisted view of life. He's a great storyteller, however, so sometimes it was hard to distinguish his imagination from reality. I definitely inherited my gift for B.S. from him.

Pair his proficiency in persuasion with a warped perspective, and mix it with alcohol and substance abuse, and you've got a pretty potent combination of reality distortion. It often showed up as paranoia; everyone was out to get him. People he worked with stole from him. New girlfriends were possessed by the devil. The reptilian people were trying to steal his life force. You know, typical everyday concerns. This led him to burning bridges with many people in his life. I eventually reached a point where I began to doubt everything he said. I don't think he's a liar; I think he genuinely believed everything. And some of it was probably true-that's what made it so difficult to discern the truth.

The most challenging part about being in a relationship with him was that, despite all the dirt and grime on the window of his personality, you could see the light within him. And there were many moments when it would shine through. His sincerity, his ability to heal people with his presence, and his inclination toward deeper spiritual understanding made him a very attractive person. I think that's why, in the face of all his flaws, my mom stayed with him for 17 years before she finally had enough.

When I turned 18 and moved away from home, he became more of a friend than a father. When I'd come home, we'd smoke weed, bullshit and laugh together, and watch movies. Visiting him was a bit of a chore, but at least I was high while doing it. He was the kind of guy you could take shrooms with on Christmas (that's not hypothetical), but if you wanted any physical or emotional parental support, forget it. To this day, I'm still not sure if he really knows what my last job was (and I did it for nine years). I think he had vague ideas, but he never listened enough to truly understand, and eventually the conversation would turn back to him and his problems.

Occasionally, there would be glimpses of intimacy and connection. He would express a sincere desire to change himself and his situation. I would get behind him, full force, but inevitably, he'd give up. Often before he began. This went on for years, and it was exhausting. Emotional (and physical) distance seemed the only way to stay sane.

Then, while I was away in Europe last year, he had a heart attack. Then another. Then another. But like most things, he was too stubborn to ask the doctors to fix it, so he wanted to do a juice cleanse and heal it himself. While we were in the French Alps, I talked with him on the phone, and he asked me to come home. I was both scared and infuriated. I was scared because, regardless of history, he was my dad, and I didn't want him to die. But I was furious because what right did he have to ask me to be there for him when he was rarely there for me? If the roles were reversed, would he change all his plans to see me?

After three more attacks, he finally decided to schedule the surgery. The morning they were set to do his quadruple bypass, my younger sister, Elayna, messaged me: "Have you heard from Dad this morning?" I hadn't, but I was in Geneva, thousands of miles away, helpless. Finally, after many phone calls from the three of us, my older sister, Lauren, reached him. He'd had another heart attack that morning, but the paramedics were with him now, and he was going to the hospital.

I remember the exact moment because Trump was announced as President for his second term while my dad was under the knife. I later joked with him that I was concerned when they woke him up from anesthesia, he'd hear the news and have another heart attack.

When I finally returned home from my travels, he looked like a different man. He'd lost a ton of weight from the surgery and recovery, and it looked like he'd aged ten years. I guess dying, even temporarily, will do that to you. But more importantly, something else about him had changed. He felt like a different man too; lighter perhaps. And even with painkillers still circulating his system, he seemed sharper.

He told me, "I feel like whatever they took out of my heart took the darkness with it." He said he no longer felt the anger and resentment toward his situation as he once did. He felt like a new man, open to life and love once again. I'd heard things like this before, but this time it felt qualitatively different. Perhaps nearly losing his time on earth was helping him take responsibility for the remaining portion he had left.

He was still my father, though, and whatever shadow had left him thankfully left his ability to bullshit intact. I spent the next few hours listening to his hilarious retelling of all the hospital stories he'd lived through while I was gone (one involving him pooping in a trash can, which had me literally rolling on the floor in laughter).

Still wary, my hope weighed down by years of disappointment, I waited to see if it would last. It's been over a year now. Still no drinking. Still no smoking. And his social and emotional intelligence has been steadily improving. He's able to read the room better than I've ever seen, and my sisters are less concerned he'll say something thoughtless in front of the impressionable grandkids.

Only now, experiencing this new version of him, do I understand how huge a role booze played in his life. I'm realizing that I never really knew my dad, only varying levels of blood alcohol content. And the longer he's away from the juice, the clearer he seems.

Now, I'm grateful to say, I actually look forward to spending time with him. As we've been preparing to see him for the holidays, I realized I didn't have a gift for him. Toriya recommended I write him a poem. Sometimes I have to sit and think about what I write, and sometimes they flow forth from me like a spring. Turns out, this one was a dam just waiting to be cracked.

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A Second Heart An Ode to My Father A gentle boy born into an age where violence was king and war was its stage. The '50s taught men to swallow the storm; mistook kindness for frailty- made suppression the norm. His dad was his hero, but his love tasted tart, for war had left him with shrapnel in his heart. Yet still, you loved him, amidst his verbal assault, for he didn't know any better; it wasn't his fault. You promised yourself that you would be different: a father who expresses his love, not cold and distant. But no one taught you what to do with a heart that feelseverything. So as you grew up, you learned to how numb. Bottle by bottle, the screams became a hum. You drowned out the world; the pain was too loud. Years of abuse left your mind in a shroud. Distance became your refuge. Anger, your armor. If self-harm was a plant, then you were its farmer. You didn't just harm yourself, for we were hurting too. Every story has two sides, but hatred isn't good glue. For years you blamed the world for your self-created hell. The bottle had taken my dad and given me his shell. But I'm sensitive too; I couldn't handle the strain of emotional baggage that came with your blame. So I searched for a solution; the rift needed a mend. If you couldn't be my father, I'd settle for friend. I watched in hope as you'd promise to change. But that candle blew out; progress was always downrange. I still loved you, of course, though it got placed on a shelf. It was hard to love my dad when he didn't love himself. So when your heart broke six times in one week, I felt my own tighten; the outlook was bleak. A mixture of fear and anger, I felt I'd been wronged. You asked me to come home as if you'd been there all along. They opened your chest and stopped your heart. And in that quiet space, something else came apart. You came back softer, unburdened-spirit clearer. As if bitterness had been bypassed, and fate had shown you the mirror. I guess it took dying to bring you alive. Before death, you were just living, but now your children see it: the veil of darkness is lifting. It took seventy-three years for your heart to relax, and for that I'm grateful- I have my dad back. I'm not here to forgive you, for you've done nothing wrong. The boy who once felt too much did his best to be strong. You did not fail us-you survived. And now, you are healing. And for the first time, perhaps, you're embracing your feelings. The prodigal father has returned, no longer estranged. Now, I see, it's my turn to heal- no more must I wait for you to change. I love you, Dad.

A Second Heart An Ode to My Father A gentle boy born into an age where violence was king and war was its stage. The '50s taught men to swallow the storm; mistook kindness for frailty- made suppression the norm. His dad was his hero, but his love tasted tart, for war had left him with shrapnel in his heart. Yet still, you loved him, amidst his verbal assault, for he didn't know any better; it wasn't his fault. You promised yourself that you would be different: a father who expresses his love, not cold and distant. But no one taught you what to do with a heart that feelseverything. So as you grew up, you learned to how numb. Bottle by bottle, the screams became a hum. You drowned out the world; the pain was too loud. Years of abuse left your mind in a shroud. Distance became your refuge. Anger, your armor. If self-harm was a plant, then you were its farmer. You didn't just harm yourself, for we were hurting too. Every story has two sides, but hatred isn't good glue. For years you blamed the world for your self-created hell. The bottle had taken my dad and given me his shell. But I'm sensitive too; I couldn't handle the strain of emotional baggage that came with your blame. So I searched for a solution; the rift needed a mend. If you couldn't be my father, I'd settle for friend. I watched in hope as you'd promise to change. But that candle blew out; progress was always downrange. I still loved you, of course, though it got placed on a shelf. It was hard to love my dad when he didn't love himself. So when your heart broke six times in one week, I felt my own tighten; the outlook was bleak. A mixture of fear and anger, I felt I'd been wronged. You asked me to come home as if you'd been there all along. They opened your chest and stopped your heart. And in that quiet space, something else came apart. You came back softer, unburdened-spirit clearer. As if bitterness had been bypassed, and fate had shown you the mirror. I guess it took dying to bring you alive. Before death, you were just living, but now your children see it: the veil of darkness is lifting. It took seventy-three years for your heart to relax, and for that I'm grateful- I have my dad back. I'm not here to forgive you, for you've done nothing wrong. The boy who once felt too much did his best to be strong. You did not fail us-you survived. And now, you are healing. And for the first time, perhaps, you're embracing your feelings. The prodigal father has returned, no longer estranged. Now, I see, it's my turn to heal- no more must I wait for you to change. I love you, Dad.

I forgave my dad over ten years ago when I did an emotional intelligence therapy course called MITT. But now I realize there's nothing to forgive him for. He did the best he knew how, and how could I be mad at him for that? I'm grateful for the life he gave me; I wouldn't be the person I am (or here at all) without him.

I also recognize that my story about him is just that-a story. More than likely, just as I judged him for his skewed perception of reality, my own has undoubtedly become skewed over the years. I am not denying the personal experience of my emotions, only that the events I shared above are not objective reality, simply my interpretation of a very complex situation.

He was a great father, and while I don't plan to go into detail about all the wonderful times I spent with him in this post, please know that I'm leaving out a huge part of the story. The float trips, karate lessons, and the precious time hunting for morel mushrooms in the woods are but a few of the happy memories I share with my father. He told me the only time his father said "I love you, son" was on his deathbed. Since I can remember, my dad has told me he loves me.

And now, I'm glad life has given me the chance to fully love him back.

Shane

Originally published at https://shaneblick.substack.com.