Rufus
It was 5 years ago, after not hearing from my dad for a few days, that I finally called the staff at his apartment and asked them to please check on him and ask him to turn on his phone ringer. Did I know something was wrong? Is that why I didn’t just get in my car and go knock on his door myself? How long did I know? Was I just putting off saying good bye to my dad?
It was someone from the fire department that called me back. I answered the phone. I don’t remember the conversation. I do remember yelling out for the man who had replaced my dad as my best friend a few years before. I remember where I was sitting. I don’t remember much else. I asked for my dad not to be moved until I could see him. I don’t know who watched the two kids I had at the time. I remember getting to Kivel, the "Independent Living Center" where my dad lived and sitting in the hall way waiting. I don’t remember what I was waiting for. I think it was for a crisis worker sent out because I was pregnant (with a due date about 3 days away) and that freaked every body out. I think the idea was to have someone there to prepare me for what I was going to see and then be prepared to catch me if I needed to do one of those pregnancy swoons seen mostly in older movies.
I didn’t swoon. I just looked at my dad and told him I was sorry. Sorry for not finding him sooner. Sorry for being angry sometimes for feeling like I was his parent. But mostly sorry that he had such a difficult life.
My dad was 2 when his mom died of polio. My dad was raised by his dad and his paternal grandparents. I’ve been told they weren’t very good at meeting basic needs including making a child feel loved. Growing up my dad must have been a tightly wound ball of sadness, confusion, and anger. My dad did not turn his life around or make any type of silver lined lemonade out of the cloud of shit lemons he was given. And eventually he did what he could to not repeat the lessons he learned on how to parent. What I like to say is that both of my parents did the best the could with the tools they were given. They were given some messed up tools.
Regardless of the mistakes my dad made as a father, I always knew that he loved me. I knew he really wanted to do right by me. I think he felt like if I judged him poorly it would be one of the worst thing that could happen to him. For that reason, I once decided to tell my dad a small lie. I told him that I was proud of him. Even though it felt like a lie at the time I knew it was important to say. It ended up meaning a lot to my dad. I was proud of him, but it was more like "Gee dad, given the circumstances you really could have fucked up way worse than you did" rather than "Wow, dad! You were really a great father to your three kids!"
No matter what: I loved him and knew he loved me. And now it has been five years. And I miss him.
My dad.
I never saw him this sad & pathetic looking.
He was always telling funny stories & making everyone laugh.
His name was not Rufus, but that’s what I called him sometimes.
