I love my father, but we've never had the kind of close relationship that other fathers and sons have had. We were typical Midwestern WASPs. We grew up being stoic. I didn't even realize I had feelings until I was in my thirties. It wasn't that things were rigid, but there were things we Just Didn't Talk About (love, money and,especially, sex being three of them). I knew I was loved and there was never a need to say so nor, esepcially, a need to hear it. It seemed strange to hear outward expressions of love between parents and children among my friends' families. We just didn't say what didn't need to be said. I find myself wanting to justify that behavior.

My father was a mailman - neither macho nor wimpy - just a Dad who worked hard to provide for his family. He was probably a lot of the same kind of father his father was: Bright, autocratic, emotionally distant. He had to always be right. That was very important to him and, for many years, I had the same affliction. He loves little children, but seems to feel threatened by teenagers. It was hard for him to express approval and harder to express affection - a measure, I am sure, of his own doubts about himself.

There were lots of good times, too - lots of smiles, stories. We were well cared for and very fortunate. I know I'm hard on my father and I'm still not entirely sure why. It was very important in our house that we "not get too big for our britches", that we didn't ever think more of ourselves than we were. And so we didn't think much of ourselves at all.

For a lot of years I told myself I hated him. I have no idea anymore why, except, perhaps that he wasn't who I wanted him to be. For a lot of years I "forgave" him because he was the product of his upbringing (and who isn't?). For a very few years now I have begun to seem him as just another man who has suffered a lot of loss, had many friends and has the same basic fears and hopes as any other man. In other words, fully human. In the last few years he has seen his wife die, his oldest son die, his daughter struggle with her own inner demons. He has seen nearly every one of his friends die. He moved to "assisted living", gave up his car and was the observer of his own body's failing health. All this with a mind that is still very sharp and sharply notes the mounting losses.

So, at age 87, he faces surgery today to repair a broken hip. He does so as resolutely emotionless as ever. Occasionally I will see him start to crumple and I'll make an effort to change the subject, lighten the mood. He did his grieving in a self-imposed solitude. I never saw him cry, but I know he did. He faces surgery the same way.

My father taught me honesty and responsibility, but I learned love from my mother, my children, their mother, my lover. My father taught me the consequences of not saying "I love you" to my children. So we tell each other freely and often, that we do.

My father is also teaching me that coming to end of one's life with dignity requires more luck and strength than I could ever have imagined. He is a very strong man.
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