Habits of our Fathers

Many of my closest friends are taken aback at the type of relationship I have had with my family, both immediate and extended. We aren't close. Truthfully, I am as much to blame as anyone for this lack of interaction, and lately it all seems so very cliche - a Cats in the Cradle of sorts - punctuated when I heard that my father suffered a heart attack a couple nights ago.

My father comes from a family where communication was an afterthought. Phone calls on birthdays and Christmas was about all the family could accomplish to shorten the distance that separated us. And still, those conversations were bland and rather quick. As a child I would feel a strong anticipation whenever it was a relative's birthday. It was really the only time I had to talk with a favourite uncle or my grandfather.

I soon learned that this sparse method of communication was going to be passed down to my two sisters and I. And this cold hard lesson was realized just the other day.

My father suffered a heart attack on Sunday, January 12th, 2009. While I have only seen him three times in the last decade, I was immediately brought back to this moment from my childhood when his father passed away. It was my 11th birthday. I was preparing for the arrival of my friends and eating breakfast my father had made for me. The phone rings. I watch my mother put her hand in front of her mouth, hang up the phone and walk outside where my father is sitting on the edge of the pool. She bends down, puts her arm around his shoulders and whispers in his ear. Instinctively I walk outside to see what is happening. My father's shoulders begin to bounce a little, and a tear climbs down his cheek and into his beard. This was the only time I had ever seen him cry.

When I was given the news about his heart attack I walked into an empty room and felt an overwhelming sadness. I began to weep quietly. Then, as if thrown back into my father's body from years ago, I noticed my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. My shoulders bounced, and a tear made its way from my eye to my cheek, and eventually the floor.

I guess we are a product of where we come from. My father is recovering, but perhaps I can use this experience to help break the chain of non-communication, forging ahead with a new desire to be the kind of son I should have tried harder to be all of these years.

He had a slew of tests done today and does not want any visitors. Tomorrow I will decide whether or not to begin yanking on the chain that has tied us together from miles apart. Wish me luck.