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Authors: Zachary Anderegg
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that I don’t want to have kids,” I tell her.
“Maybe I was hard on you, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it now,” she says between sobs. How do I feel? I don’t feel sympathetic. I’m surprised, but it’s all too little and too late, and nothing she could say can undo the damage done. Her tears are meaningless.
My dad has been surprisingly quiet throughout our interaction, until now.
“Why don’t you grow up and be a man?” he says to me.
In his mind, it’s my job, my responsibility, to fix what went wrong in the past. He continues throwing stones.
“And what’s this crap about you not wanting kids? Don’t even think about using me and the way I treated you as an excuse to not want to have kids of your own.”
I think, What the hell is going on here!? Who are these people? These self-centered narcissists?
I’m borderline furious, ready to turn things from verbal to physical. The sheer disrespect directed at me is too much to handle.
“You’re not just a pathetic excuse for a father,” I tell him. “You’re a pathetic excuse for an adult.”
“Right now,” my father says, “you are waving a red flag at a bull.”
But he has no idea which one of us is the bull. Suddenly I know that if the conversation continues, we’ll fight, and if we do, I’ll kill him, or at the very least, put him in the hospital. The irony is not lost on me that I am standing up to him, the way I might have stood up to all the kids who bullied me. He has indeed taught me how to be a man, by serving as a poor example of one.
“Come on,” I tell Michelle, who is in tears, and I feel bad that she has had to see this. “We need to go.”
Then it’s two and a half years later, and I’m thirty-two, living in Southern California. My father and I haven’t spoken in more than two years. It’s 8:30 on a Wednesday night when the phone rings, and my caller ID tells me the call is coming from Wisconsin, but I don’t recognize the number. I know it’s not my father or my mother calling, so I pick up. It’s my Uncle Greg. I’ve managed to stay reasonably close with him over the years. I sit down on the steps that lead into the living room to take the call.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Zak,” he says. “I’m heading over to the hospital with Robin. She said your dad went unconscious at home on the living room floor and she called an ambulance. They’re taking him there now. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ll call you with an update.”
“Keep me in the loop,” I say.
I realize I should probably be more affected by the news, but I’m not. I look over at Michelle and tell her what I’ve just learned.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, half-laughing. “I wonder what’s going to happen if he dies?”
It’s the first thought that comes to mind, one I’ve never had before. How will I feel? How will it affect the family? Will there be any regrets? My bemused tone is just false bravado, me trying to show I’m above being saddened by the loss—but what am I losing? A man who was never there? A chance to patch things up? But if we were going to patch things up, it was his turn to make the first move, not mine, and in two years, his best effort was an email blaming me for the evening at their house.
Ten minutes later, my uncle calls back. I know what he’s about to say.
“Zak,” he says. “Your dad is gone.”
I’m not shocked or caught off guard. For some reason, I’ve been expecting this. I have not been expecting good news.
“So I guess by the time they got him to the hospital,” my uncle continues, “he’d already—”
“It’s all right,” I say, cutting him off. All I can think is how he just lost a brother, and he must be devastated, but instead of addressing his own grief, he’s trying to help me. He is the conduit between me and my father, even in death, and he wants things to be right between us, so he’s putting
“Maybe I was hard on you, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it now,” she says between sobs. How do I feel? I don’t feel sympathetic. I’m surprised, but it’s all too little and too late, and nothing she could say can undo the damage done. Her tears are meaningless.
My dad has been surprisingly quiet throughout our interaction, until now.
“Why don’t you grow up and be a man?” he says to me.
In his mind, it’s my job, my responsibility, to fix what went wrong in the past. He continues throwing stones.
“And what’s this crap about you not wanting kids? Don’t even think about using me and the way I treated you as an excuse to not want to have kids of your own.”
I think, What the hell is going on here!? Who are these people? These self-centered narcissists?
I’m borderline furious, ready to turn things from verbal to physical. The sheer disrespect directed at me is too much to handle.
“You’re not just a pathetic excuse for a father,” I tell him. “You’re a pathetic excuse for an adult.”
“Right now,” my father says, “you are waving a red flag at a bull.”
But he has no idea which one of us is the bull. Suddenly I know that if the conversation continues, we’ll fight, and if we do, I’ll kill him, or at the very least, put him in the hospital. The irony is not lost on me that I am standing up to him, the way I might have stood up to all the kids who bullied me. He has indeed taught me how to be a man, by serving as a poor example of one.
“Come on,” I tell Michelle, who is in tears, and I feel bad that she has had to see this. “We need to go.”
Then it’s two and a half years later, and I’m thirty-two, living in Southern California. My father and I haven’t spoken in more than two years. It’s 8:30 on a Wednesday night when the phone rings, and my caller ID tells me the call is coming from Wisconsin, but I don’t recognize the number. I know it’s not my father or my mother calling, so I pick up. It’s my Uncle Greg. I’ve managed to stay reasonably close with him over the years. I sit down on the steps that lead into the living room to take the call.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Zak,” he says. “I’m heading over to the hospital with Robin. She said your dad went unconscious at home on the living room floor and she called an ambulance. They’re taking him there now. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ll call you with an update.”
“Keep me in the loop,” I say.
I realize I should probably be more affected by the news, but I’m not. I look over at Michelle and tell her what I’ve just learned.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, half-laughing. “I wonder what’s going to happen if he dies?”
It’s the first thought that comes to mind, one I’ve never had before. How will I feel? How will it affect the family? Will there be any regrets? My bemused tone is just false bravado, me trying to show I’m above being saddened by the loss—but what am I losing? A man who was never there? A chance to patch things up? But if we were going to patch things up, it was his turn to make the first move, not mine, and in two years, his best effort was an email blaming me for the evening at their house.
Ten minutes later, my uncle calls back. I know what he’s about to say.
“Zak,” he says. “Your dad is gone.”
I’m not shocked or caught off guard. For some reason, I’ve been expecting this. I have not been expecting good news.
“So I guess by the time they got him to the hospital,” my uncle continues, “he’d already—”
“It’s all right,” I say, cutting him off. All I can think is how he just lost a brother, and he must be devastated, but instead of addressing his own grief, he’s trying to help me. He is the conduit between me and my father, even in death, and he wants things to be right between us, so he’s putting
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