My father is terminally ill with kidney cancer. It has spread to his liver. He also has a form of leukemia called myelodyplastic syndrome. He’s receiving weekly treatments to prolong his life.
Last Friday was the first time I saw my father since 2004. A friend came with me. We all had lunch at a restaurant. I gave my father a brown scapular and a St. Benedict’s cross.
When I last saw him five years ago, I was not in a very good state—neither mentally nor physically. I was obese (because of a Zyprexa and binge eating disorder combo) and nearly bald because of trichotillomania. We met for lunch at a diner and all I did was sob and ask him why he didn’t want me as a daughter. He didn’t answer and looked as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there. I knew he didn’t want to see me ever again.
I didn’t wish that to be the last image my father had of me. It’s an image that only confirms his belief that I’m nothing but a lazy, crazy loser. Because of that, I spent seven hours getting ready for Friday's lunch, doing what I call, "my movie star thing." So I did look quite pulled together—I think.
Since last November, I had been begging my father to allow me to visit him in Florida. He kept making excuses why I couldn't. Finally, he agreed to meet with me here in NJ since he was coming up to visit his mother. (He has never made a special trip just to see me.)
In general, my father displayed not one iota of emotion during our meeting. I know if I hadn’t seen my child for five years, I would have been completely overwhelmed with feelings. My dry cleaner is more moved to see me.
Shortly after he sat down, Dad's cell phone rang and he walked outside to talk. This went on throughout lunch. He's the boss and could have delegated his phone responsibilities to someone else, at least for those couple of hours. It would have been the polite thing to do, the nice thing to do, especially considering we hadn’t seen each other in five years. In March, he took off a week from his business to take his entire family (excluding me, of course) to Georgia for a vacation. It would have been wonderful if he could have taken off a measly two hours to have lunch with me. I think he wanted his phone to ring constantly because he knew I was going to be talking about heavy topics and he just didn’t want to deal with it.
He said he wouldn’t be coming up to NJ again. I found that hard to believe because his mother, brother, and business are up here. I emailed his youngest daughter (my half-sister) and she wrote that probably isn't true for the very same reasons I mentioned. And he didn't invite me down to visit him in Florida either. I can only conclude that he was lying to me because he simply doesn’t want to see me again.
I told him how happy I was to see him, but he did not return the sentiment. He did say I looked nice, though.
At no point did my father ask me how I was, or what was happening in my life, or what my future plans are. Not one question. He just doesn’t care about me or my life and never has.
I reunited with my father twenty-five years ago when I was twenty-three. At that time, he told me that he would never let me out of life again and wanted me to have his name. He also expressed his regret at never having me baptized. Well, I had myself baptized when I was thirty-one but have found it difficult to have my birth certificate corrected on my own because I can’t afford an attorney. I wanted my father’s name on it instead of the man who is legally cited as my father. That man left when I was a newborn and is a complete stranger to me. Dad has been saying for many years that he would help me pay for the attorney, but still hasn’t. It always meant so much to me to have my birth "legitimized" and thus gain a sense of identity. My father adopted a child from Korea and, with the utmost ease, gave the boy his last name. At lunch, I showed Dad my birth certificate and told him, once again, how important it is to me. He told me to "put it away somewhere safe." He made no further comment. Nothing. Like I was nothing.
I expressed to him how I always wanted a family and a sense of belonging. Again, no response.
"I cry about this every single day," I said.
"Don't cry," was my father's reply. He didn't add anything about helping me get my birth certificate corrected or including me in his family.
I gave my father pictures from various periods of my life. He wasn’t moved. I think my name could be Michelle Obama and he would still view me as a worthless mistake. His eyes lit up only when he was looking at himself driving his beloved 1962 Caddy.
When I showed him a picture of me receiving a medal from Gov. Whitman for academic excellence in college, he said, "It’s a shame the government can’t help you." Perhaps the government expects family to take care of their own. (My father is a multi-millionaire.)
At lunch, he gave me a birthday card (my birthday was April 7th) with $25 in it. What I really want from my father is ALL the love, support, attention, concern, protection, and time he has given to his other four children. Yes, if he could have fit all of that in the little birthday card envelope, I would have felt satisfied. Twenty-five dollars is merely a crust of bread—a crumb even. It’s like when someone leaves a waiter a penny to make a clear statement about what little they think of the service. My father was reminding me that I am of no value to him. He offered my friend $40 for making the drive. He gave his youngest daughter a stable and six horses.
I told my father that I contacted all four of my siblings a couple of months ago. Three of them rejected me because their mother (my stepmother) told them I was a "crazy prostitute" who was only after my father’s money. My youngest sister and I have been emailing each other. My father said he wasn’t going to say anything to anyone about it. I said, "Why not say anything? Why do I have to continue to be the shameful secret no one should talk about?"
Over the years, often my father has told me his version of how I was brought into this world. "I was young and irresponsible, and made a big mistake." Of course, that "big mistake, was me. At lunch, he told the story to my friend, this time using the words, "I was young and stupid."
Dad rushed through the lunch eating only half of a small bowl of soup.
After we finished eating, we walked to our cars in the parking lot. I turned and said, "I love you Dad." For a moment, I looked into his eyes and saw a man filled with guilt and fear. Guilt because of the way he's rejected me these past twenty-five years and the abuse I suffered as a child. Fear because of my unrelenting audacity, which drove me to continually confront him regarding what I needed from a father.
I realized it wasn't only he who was controlling me all of these years, but rather, it was also I who had control over him. I saw in his eyes a very frightened man running from his past—me. I realized too it would be the last time that I would ever look into those eyes—my father's eyes.
He said, "Love you too," as he took his cell phone out of his pocket and began dialing.
I left not feeling any degree of real closure. I was invalidated—not heard. I continued to feel as I always have regarding my father—unloved, rejected, unimportant; like I’m a nothing—a mistake.
My father said he goes to church every week. How could he possibly think God would condone his rejecting me all these years? Twenty-five years ago, God presented my father with a daughter who forgave his past and only wanted one thing from him—love. Yet my father chose to ignore God. He has continued to show me, through both word and deed, how absolutely meaningless I am to him and how supremely important his other children and wife are. I’m not even worthy enough to have his name—the name he gave to his adopted son.
All I can do is pray for him and ask God to have mercy on his soul: "Lord, forgive him, he knows not what he does."
No one will ever understand the profound pain of parental rejection unless they've been through it themselves. I cry, no SOB over it every single day—big, wailing, shoulder-jerking sobs. I’ll always have a bottomless chasm in my heart that can never be filled by anyone here on earth other than my family. I’d like to say that God fills it, but to be honest, despite my faith, I still feel that emptiness. It has affected every single aspect of my life and always will.
I was listening to Elvis’ If I Can Dream this morning. It contains the lyrics:
There must be lights burning brighter somewhere
Got to be birds flying higher in a sky more blue
If I can dream of a better land
Where all my brothers walk hand-in-hand
Tell me why, oh why, oh why can’t my dream come true?
There must be peace and understanding sometime
Strong winds of promise that will blow always the doubt and fear
If I can dream of a warmer sun where hope keeps shining on everyone
Tell me why, oh why, oh why won’t that sun appear?
We’re lost in a cloud with too much rain
We trapped in a world that struggles with pain
But as long as a man has the strength to dream
He can redeem his soul and fly
Deep in my heart there’s a trembling question
Still I am sure that the answer’s gonna come somehow
Out there in the dark
There’s a beckoning candle
And while I think
While I can walk
While I can stand
While I can talk
While I can dream
Please let my dream
Come true
Right now
Some of us will never experience true happiness while on this earth. Sadly, that's just the way it is. Life is more difficult for some than others.
My dream is that God will have mercy on my soul so that someday I will go to heaven and experience that place where there is no rejection, no physical or emotional pain, just pure love—the glorious, joyous love that only God and Jesus can give.
That’s my hope. That’s my dream.