To be my father’s daughter, I had to be resilient.
When I describe my dad, I do so with a smile on my face and love in my heart. I tell people he was among the most creative, generous, and positive people I’ve ever known. He was a drummer who marched to his own beat and wore colorful clothes and lots of jewelry. He made everyone laugh and often laughed at himself. He was open to wild ideas and didn’t judge anyone by how much money they had, where they were from, how they chose to express themselves, or how many mistakes they made. I also tell people about our beloved family dog, a senior rescue named Lucky, who was practically unadoptable, but my dad gave him a second chance and lived to be 22 years old. My dad was a champion for the underdog and would literally give someone the shirt off his back.
When I describe my dad, I don’t always mention that the colorful clothes on his back were often stained and smelled like urine. I don’t like to speak about the drug addicts he befriended and simply saw as fun and interesting people who were down on their luck. I don’t define him as a hoarder who destroyed my grandmother’s home and got himself evicted. I don’t like to remember the fact that at age 71, he became homeless and addicted to meth. I don’t dwell on how many times he missed my birthday or how many of his birthdays I spent wondering where he was. Our beloved family dog came to live with me during his last years, and I wish my dad would have done the same.
When I say that my dad died of heart failure at age 78, I’m reminded of the miracle that he wasn’t supposed to live passed the age of 18 due to a congenital heart condition. Three months before his death, after becoming hypothermic in the rain, without identification or medical insurance, he finally agreed to let me help him turn his life around. To say that that was hard for both of us was an understatement. But he got off drugs. He had clean clothes. He was on his way to finding stable housing. He received medical attention and scheduled cardiac surgery that was decades overdue. I know he was scared because he told me he was. He wasn’t afraid of death, but he didn’t feel ready to die. His poor choices became painfully real, and he was trying to make amends. All of this took tremendous courage and forgiveness. Two weeks before the surgery, his heart failed. The last thing he said to me was, “I love you,” as he waved goodbye with a big toothless smile and messy white hair, with Lucky’s ashes in a necklace urn dangling around his neck. His story of resilience is inseparable from mine.
I was hesitant to share my story because I know many others, including my dad, have it worse than I do. I didn’t want him to be so many of the things he was, but seeing him as a real person rather than a failed role model allowed me to actually recognize his resilience and, in turn, my own. He didn’t forget my birthday because it wasn’t important to him… he knew exactly when my birthday was and still kept a newspaper clipping of my birth announcement when he was homeless… he just simply wasn’t aware of what day it was… ever. Seeing my dad for who he was and not who I wanted him to be brought us closer before he died. If I had held on to resentment, I could have easily abandoned him like I used to think he abandoned me. He could have died on the streets alone rather than in a skilled nursing facility surrounded by medical professionals who made every effort to bring him back. I could have easily carried so much regret, and so could he. Instead, we became a source of strength for one another.
First and foremost, you cannot help someone unwilling to help themselves, no matter how much you love them or how much they love you. If we spend more time and effort controlling our internal perspective, our external circumstances will usually improve. Resilience is about seeing the reality of our situation for better and worse, but we should try not to let the worst of times eclipse the very best.
Are you ready to share your story of RESILIENCE? You can do that HERE.