I called my Dad
by Keith Jarvis
On Father’s Day in 2004, I had the plan – or the idea of the plan – in the back of my mind for quite some time. I’d sent my Dad cards in previous years for Father’s Day and Christmas and even his birthday, when I could remember. I deliberately didn’t send him a card this year; I think I was trying to force myself to give him a call.
Keith and his Dad in 2003
I hadn’t spoken to my father in many years. I’m not exactly sure how long, but I’m guessing at least seven years. I’d attempted to create meaningful correspondence with him a few times but without much success.
I wanted to communicate with him about things I found important – relationship, honesty, events past and present. I wanted to understand how and why he’d made certain choices in his relationship with me and with his own father. I wanted to know him – instead of relying completely on my compilation of projections and judgments about who he was.
I’d felt so hurt and abandoned and angry at my father for nearly my entire life. Yet I know that if I didn’t get some sense of resolution, or at least speak my truths before his death, that I may never fully heal.
Dad was 70 years old, I think, or maybe 71. He’d survived a bout with prostate cancer about five years before, which I think was treated successfully with radiation and surgery. He’s been a functioning alcoholic most of his adult life. So my guess was he probably wouldn’t be around when I turned fifty. Callous, perhaps, to think this way, but that was how I thought of the situation.
I’ve journaled a great deal about my father, and would be glad in shadowy ways to spend this time describing his errors so as to martyr myself and elicit your sympathy. But what I wanted to share when I started this piece was an old shadow I became much more aware of after I had called him.
I’ve often thought of my father as unwilling to discuss anything of real importance, afraid to speak uncomfortable truths. While my perception may be accurate, I’m crystal clear in this moment what I’ve just said is a projection. The man afraid to bring up emotional issues was me.
My fear had completely crippled me my entire life. My fear to speak my truth in life, to be myself, to be self-reliant, to take risks in my life – all are an outgrowth of my fear to speak to my father about my feelings and hurts.
Despite my fears, the call went pretty well. My Dad was very pleased to hear from me. He asked safe, superficial questions about my pets. I’d planned for the call to be brief. I’d called him while waiting for a table at lunch, so I had an honest reason to keep the call short. I felt good I had another “warrior brother” waiting for the table with me and I was amongst friends.
I called my Dad. I did not know what was next, or what the realization of the depth of my projection would hold for me. I’d always thought to face my father and gain his respect, I would have to achieve success and peace in my life. Maybe, instead, I needed to gain my own respect by taking risks and believing in myself enough to respect myself. I could not do anything about the way my father perceived me. What I could do was work on how I perceived myself and how I perceived him.
Soon after the Father’s Day call, my Dad developed lung cancer. We made a sort of undeclared truce enabling us, at least, to be around each other a bit in his last year and a half. These final months were not perfect. We never quite formed what I wanted, but none of what we did form together would have happened if I hadn’t made that call.
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Keith Jarvis lives in Nashville, Tennessee. He works for The ManKind Project as Information Systems Director. He is owned by three dogs and a cat. He loves fantasy football and science fiction. Born and raised in Ohio, where his family still resides, Keith remains a diehard Ohio State football fan. |
– is a deeply personal issue that everyone decides for himself. Sometimes the price is high, sometimes low. But this is not very important for life. Life is an interesting thing. And the price on Viagra – too.
