Lately, my father spends his days watching a nest of newly hatched osprey. He writes his children emails about fuzzy-headed chicks straining their scrawny, pencil necks, craning for food, their mouths open wide – almost too wide to in relation to the size of their tiny heads. He worries that the neighbors will think he’s a pervert. But the binoculars are for the chicks – the feathery kind.
My father has always loved birds. When we were young, he spent hours in the aviary he’d built onto the garage, rotating eggs in the incubator, making mash for young cockatiels and quail. And that he’s taken an interest in these young ospreys relieves me. It has been a very long time since he’s expressed an interest in anything.
Over the last couple of years, I have felt my father become a much different person. The divorce altered him, hip replacement surgery nearly defeated him, and there were times he’d call only to choke a sob into my voicemail and hang up. I worried.
I worry. Present tense.
When I was younger, it was a physical handicap that set my father apart from everyone else’s. No longer the breadwinner after spinal arthritis ended his career as a forest fire fighter, he played Mr. Mom to the five Hunter children. Laundry duties, carpool and dinner on the table at six. It’s complicated what that will do to a man – the way changing his role so completely can change the way he sees himself. And while his self-image suffered considerably from fate and circumstance, he still says that those years of fathering were the only thing he’s ever really done right.
Were it the only thing, it would be enough.
That he’s taken to signing emails to his children, Love, SmeagleDad says a lot about his state of mind. It says a lot about the way he chooses to address the mental illness that now separates him from others – and even from his former self. And were that sort of levity constant, I might worry less. But it is not. Geography has kept him out of sight for the better part of the last eight years, and selfishness (mine) makes me wish that sometimes, it would keep him a little more out of mind. Only because knowing that I cannot do anything to combat his depression, much less truly understand the newer evidences of paranoid schizophrenia, is heartbreaking.
As a child, I went fishing with my father a number of times. We’d sit, a cooler of grape soda and ding-dongs between us, on the seats of his beat up tin lizzy, or on the bank of a stream too cold for swimming, and wait quietly for red and white bobbers to jerk below the water. I remember it being very still and peaceful.
I like to imagine that he still finds that sometimes. I hope that in those quiet moments, with a pair binoculars pressed to his face, keeping watch over that nest of babies, he finds the parts of him that he’s been so afraid he lost in all the chaos.
It’s a sad day when you realize your parents aren’t the superheroes you once thought they were.
so beautiful, h. and so brave of you to write this, and in such a gentle, moving, way.
xoxo.
There is such quiet dignity in your honesty, Fish, both yours and your father’s. Thank you for sharing this. It’s beautiful. May your father find the happy calm and restful mind you remember, once again.
beautiful. heartbreaking. thank you.
brilliantly written. thank you for sharing.
I imagine he would love to read it.
it just makes me sad to read his emails anymore. and when they’re upbeat and cheery, that’s when i worry a little more.
You are a lovely writer.
Having seen my share of depression, and with my own father currently in the process of passing over (I’m 23–he’s 77), the moments when I remember my father as he truly is, his authentic self, without all the wounds inflicted on him by life, people, etc…these are precious to me.
Mental illness is a tough battle. I wish your father strength and courage, and you as well.
It’s sad isn’t it? When things became different from what it previously is. Sometimes, we just wonder, why things doesn’t stay the way it is…. Anyway, this is a beautiful entry.
Wow Fish, you have an incredible way with words. Everything you wrote I could see in my mind’s eye. I guess that is the point. I can’t possibly imagine what you’re feeling, but I hope your dad find’s that peace he once shared with you.
Sometimes we are left loving our parents more for their weaknesses than for their strengths. When that happens, it points to a strength in us. Thank you for this entry.
wow !
i have read ur post and read all the comments written .. not a single one mentioned that you should visit your father !
I know i come from a different background all together but hey that’s the point in sharing..
instead of talking about it here.. you should book a flight and go to your father and attend to his needs as he did when he did attend yours as a kid!
you might say and my job my business.. yeah ok .. take a break at least let him feel that he has children around him in time of need !
take care of him.. after all .. he’s human ! and remember what goes around comes around..
sorry if my comment is long and not as “colorful” as the rest..
This was very beautiful and very human. Really nicely done.
when i read your posts, they always seem so effortless. you have a way with words that i could only dream of having. thank you for sharing this.
It is difficult to realize that your parents are only human, and even more so when you begin to realize they have needs to be met. I dread those acutely uncomfortable silences between me and my mother on the phone, when I see what she needs from me but don’t know how to give it. Amazing, how much more complicated the parent-child relationship gets once the child becomes an adult. And we always thought it should get easier.
I think it’s some times those memories that help us cope with the present. Thanks for sharing something that’s painful.
So beautiful, moving, haunting. Thank you for sharing that story.
Thanks for having the courage to share this post. My mother is Bipolar and I find that I often draw my own strength from your words.
You worry. Already, that’s worth a lot.
Really, really poignant and lovely post. Thank you.
i don’t mean to start any trouble here, but to address sloth’s comments–the reason no one has told fish to get on a plane and go visit her dad is that we respect her “no advice” policy and trust that not only is the author in command of her words, but also her personal decisions and the reasons behind her actions.
sassylittlepunkin
i understand ..i meant no disrespect one way or another.. but it would be really helpful if we point out something that she might have been thinking about but never had the courage to take an action for..
i know i would be
again .. no disrespect intended
Your candor on such difficult topics helps so many of us out here. Thanks for not being afraid.
(PS – friend recently wore the TFNaB tee I gave her and stirred quite the conversation!)
I’m so sorry for the loss you’re suffering. It is a loss, I know, because I also lost my dad emotionally long before he physically passed away. His mental illness was Alzheimer’s, which presented at a very early age, so I was only 19 when my dad started to not recognize me. A lot of people don’t realize it, but a lot of Alzheimer’s symptoms are similar to paranoid schizophrenia–my dad had hallucinations and thought everyone was out to get him. Anyway. Just wanted to express my sorrow for what you’re experiencing–it’s one of the hardest things I’ve been through.
i have been reading for some time now and was moved by this post. it made me miss my own dad who passed when i was 19. he, too, struggled with depression and lost himself in alcoholism. my heart goes out to you and your dad.
Great post. Very brave of you to discuss the mental illness in your family. So often mental illness goes unmentioned, leaving other family members unable to process or cope. My own family has been ravaged by mental illness as well; my father died from alcoholism-related injuries when I was 14; he was 39. I admire your strength and ability to lovingly cope with his illness. Thanks for reminding me I once had a dad, just in time for Father’s Day.
In the last years of my grandmas life, she suffered dementia. And my dad sufferred too. He would refuse to follow her when she would strike out in search of baby William throughout the nursing home. ‘Baby William’ being my very adult uncle.
It was hard for him to keep visiting and you could see he just wanted it to be over. She wasn’t his mother any more.
It’s Father’s Day this weekend and I have thought a lot about my own dad and his story. Your writing inspires. This post says nothing but love of a daughter for a father to me. Troubled or not. Thanks for sharing.
I too, like Sloth, am appalled. I read this post, and knowing nothing else about your or your family, I offer you this advice: What you need to do now is invite Jesus into your life. Maybe you’ve thought about it but didn’t have the courage to act.
(What a dumbass)
I hope he finds those moments as well.
ahhh…. it is now much clearer where your man in uniform thing comes from!
The only way to remove the stigma around mental illness is to bring it’s issues into the public forum. Thanks, fish. Very brave. You’re giving lots of people permission to bring their own stories forward.
i visited my dad this last winter… it was disturbing to see how much older he had gotten and what time had done to him. i hear ya.
Life is hard even for the people you thought were infallable… you parents. Love your work Miss Fish.
I am 29 and its six years today since my dad died. There are not many things in life I regret more than this: not having been near my dad oftener, telling him “I understand. I love you.”. Catch that plane, H. Do go see him before its too late. Sorry for out-stepping the “no advice” rule.
And Gopi: When was the last time you ever posted anyting appreciative here?
” she urges early on