Letter to Dad

When I think back to all my childhood memories, the earliest memory that I can pin point is the evening of January 30th, 1983.

The only reason I know the exact date is that the Redskins won their first Super Bowl on that day. I was 3 years and 20 days old, and what I remember from that night is not so much the actual game, but the celebration that ensued afterwards.

Several loud sharp blasts... I crawl under the coffee table and cover my ears. I'm very tired. "Mommy what's that noise?"

Apparently, my father was so overwhelmed with joy over the victory (not to mention piss drunk), that he decided to walk out the front door of our apartment and fire a few gun shots into the air.

Nobody called the cops on him because he was actually the Manager of the apartment complex. (if you can believe that) I remember being confused as to why he was shooting a gun if the Redskins won the game. It seemed to me that shooting the gun would have been more appropriate had we lost... Regardless, it was an exciting moment for a 3 year old child who lived for John Riggins and the Redskins.

That memory says a lot about my father, he was 24 years old, irresponsible, a little crazy, and had a scary little habit of getting drunk and playing with fire arms... However it does not tell the whole story. It would be unfair to tell the bad stuff and not tell you about the good stuff.

I should tell you about the feeling I got when he would come pick me up from the babysitter's house.

I guess anyone who had to go to a babysitter or daycare when they were in Elementary School might know the feeling of seeing your parent walk through the door to take you home.

I remember running up to him and latching onto his leg. He would ask me about school as we walked to his truck. It was just a regular pick up truck but it seemed to touch the sky as I looked up at it from my child's point of view. He would have to pick me up, lifting my chubby body and giant bookbag and place me on the seat.

His hands were so big, so strong. My hand had a way of disappearing into his when he held it, lost in the sea of his hard, calloused fingers.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I had a son and held his hand. My hands are soft and fleshy. Would my son be in awe of hands like that? They just aren't the hands of my father, working man hands... hands you could be proud of.

He was my Dad, my hero... The guy who took a 10th Grade Education and went from Maintenance Man to Operations Manager of a large company.

The man who would be passed out drunk on the kitchen floor Sunday would somehow manage to negotiate a million dollar renovation deal on Monday morning.

He deified logic and wisdom every step of the way. When he was dating my mother he would get so drunk that she had to help him walk, but somehow he always managed to hop on a motorcycle and drive her home before curfew without incident.

No matter how much trouble he got into, he could always get out of it. Once while drinking and driving he ran into a parked car with his truck... When the driver of the car complained, he backed up and hit it again. Then he drove off like nothing happened. That incident ended with him in handcuffs, but when he went to court he talked a judge into giving him what amounted to a slap on the wrist... He didn't even get any points on his license, AND the guy who's car he hit ended up inviting him back to his house for a BBQ! The poor guy... After my Dad was done talking to him, he probably thought HE was at fault in the accident!

As the saying goes, my Dad could "sell ice to an Eskimo."

He knew just what to say, he knew what you wanted to hear... Whether it was a judge, my mother, or his boss, he always knew how to fix the situation.

He talked to the elderly grounds keeper (Mr. Carter, god rest his soul) the same way he talked to his millionaire boss. Like an equal. Everybody respected him. To this day I can call up anyone that worked with or for him and get a favor. Tickets to the game, new siding for my house, or the keys to a vacant apartment. Anything.

He had that Babe Ruth quality about him- stay out drinking all night long and show up the next day just in time to hit the game winning Home Run.

It was as though for him, there were no consequences. You could drop out of school, go through life drunk and high, drive double the speed limit while guzzling a Budweiser, do whatever you wanted and still come out fine on the other end.

Probably not the best roll model, but damn, he's accumulated some great stories over the years... He's never been that great at being a father, but at the very least I can say he's been a good friend. A lot of kids don't even get that so the way I see it, I have no right to complain.

In the end of course it's all an illusion. Nobody can abuse their body that much and still have the last laugh. Nobody can out run time, not even my father... This race we call life is not a sprint, it's a marathon. And despite his early lead, his demons caught up to him. "La Vida Loca" has finally taken it's toll.

On his most recent fall off the wagon he fell further than any of us could have expected, spiraling out of control. In a 6 month period he lost it all, his job, his marriage, his dignity, and his confidence. He is a shell of the man he once was.

I wish I could reach out, take him in my hands and lift him up like he used to do for me. But I can't. I don't even have the courage to call him. We haven't spoken in quite some time, and even if we did speak, to be honest, I don't know what I would say.

I wrote this letter a while back but haven't been able to send it... Maybe one day:

Dad,

I know you’re going through a very difficult time in your life right now. Every man walks down his own road and fights his own battles, so I won’t pretend to have any answers.

I can't say I've ever been in the position you're in right now, but that's not to say I haven't seen my share of adversity and depression.

It seems no matter what I do, where I go, what I buy, or what I change in my life, I am occasionally brought back to the dark and lonely path of depression… So I do now how THAT feels.

At the worst of times it feels like I’m alone in a dark cave searching for an exit that doesn't exist. I’m feeling my way along the walls, hoping that something or someone will help pull me through.
At those moments I often think back to a moment in my life that you might remember.

I’m 12 years old, and I’m in pain. Not just your everyday pain either, this is like a knife jammed into my stomach and being twisted around. The doctors tell me that my appendix has ruptured and that they have to send me to surgery right away.

Everyone is telling me that it’s "no big deal," and that it’s "fairly routine." But I see the look on Mom’s face and I know that it's more serious than that.

I’m terrified and I don’t want to be cut open, but at the same time, the pain is overwhelming. So much so that I keep losing consciousness… I remember being cold and naked, with just a thin hospital gown covering my body.

As they roll me down the hallway and towards the Operating Room I feel very alone. The closer they roll me to the door, the closer the fear gets… Then, (this is the way the foggy memory plays in mind anyway) just before they open the doors, I felt you, my dad... You leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“I love you,” I heard you say and I felt a cold tear roll down my cheek. But it wasn’t my tear, it was yours. I had never felt such pure love in my life and suddenly I wasn’t so afraid.

I knew you loved me, and I knew no matter how far they took me that you would be protecting me.
With all the pain and fear I had swirling around me at the time, some might find it strange that I would choose this as my favorite memory from childhood, but I do.

I don’t take the memory out very often. I keep it tucked away like some sort of treasure, buried deep in some dark corner of my mind. I only take it out when I find myself totally lost and afraid.

I don’t know if you remember that moment differently… Maybe you don’t remember it at all. But I do remember it, and I love you for giving it to me.

I would like to give it back... for now… I think you need it more than I do. Use it however you wish. Take it out as often as you like, or keep it tucked away for emergencies, like I do.

Just please, whatever you do, take good care of it. I hope it will help you as much as it has helped me. Your loving son- Joel