I ran out of nice things to say

Death doesn’t right wrongs.

I started writing a memoir about Dad.

He’d been gone six months. I wanted to remember him the best way I knew how—in words.

So I bought a notebook, collated anecdotes, dedicated it to “fathers who love their daughters.”

But the more stories of Dad I surfaced, the less flattering they became. Pretty soon I ran out of nice things to say that felt true.

So I stopped.

The thing I did not do

A year before he died, I wrote Dad’s eulogy. I never got to read it, because I didn’t attend his funeral.

His death wasn’t sudden—it was four years coming—but still it took us by surprise. One day he was home, the next at the hospital, that night he died.

I was in London with my partner. We were a week away from a beach holiday in Vietnam—my first time off work in a year. The timing couldn’t be worse.

But still, I could have gone. I could have called everything off and flown home.

I decided not to.

It didn’t feel like a decision at first. When I went to bed that night, Dad had just died. When I woke up, the funeral was set to begin, all the guests invited. No one had asked: When can you fly home?

I was shocked. I’d never dreamt of not attending Dad’s funeral. But then, as one family member after another neglected to ask if I’d be there, shock turned to relief.

I realised I didn’t want to go. Dad was gone. What difference would attending his funeral make?

So I stayed in London, went on my beach vacation, then three weeks later returned home to scatter his ashes.

I don’t regret it.

Death doesn’t right wrongs

It feels wrong to be angry at a dead man. But I am.

I am angry at all the things Dad did and did not do. However hard I try, I can’t summon enough gratitude to quell my many resentments.

How he wanted a child enough to rope his wife into motherhood, but not enough to share her burden of raising me.
How he escaped into work rather than address the unhappy home life that coloured my childhood.
How he, decades later, turned me against the mother who did raise me with confidences only I could understand.

My most salient memories of Dad are all of him injuring me in some way. Telling me I don’t need friends. Driving in such a hurry to get to his badminton game that I feared for my life. Having Mum fly alone to London to bring me home when I was debilitated by depression, a decision I didn’t question at the time but—was work really more important? Shipping me off to the most basic psychiatric ward, essentially a prison for the mentally disturbed, when I became manic a year later—and not once visiting.

These are not great injuries. These are the actions of a man who tried his best but still couldn’t be the father I wished for—

The father who knew how to tell me he loved me; who was able to say “yes” when I asked if he was proud of all that I’d achieved; who didn’t still say I was weak—you’re weak, a drama queen—even after I’d overcome several depressions, mania, and the locked ward he sent me to; who wouldn’t in a heartbeat trade 36-year-old Val for the little girl who loved nothing better than Sundays with Dad.

The father who would teach me to be a functioning adult. To regulate my emotions and relate to others. To insure my health, invest my money, protect my peace.

Not the father who died at 65 because he believed all doctors money grabbers, and as a result never got the health check that would have revealed his very curable cancer years before a severe back pain compelled him to a hospital visit that culminated in his terminal diagnosis.

We’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But it’s beginning to feel dishonest to never speak my truth. So here it is: I am angry at his failure to parent, his failure to love, his failure to live.

I know no one is perfect. Dad wasn’t a bad man. And he tried his best to not be a bad father. But in this moment of anger, I want more.

So that memoir of a father’s love will remain unwritten until the day I can remember his—and truthfully say his best was enough.

What do you think?

There is no grand conclusion here, just an angry daughter grieving a father she lost too soon.

What to do when we’re angry with the dead?

Is there a way to excise that anger when no confrontations can be had? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone who just might understand.

Until next time… Stay thoughtful,

Val

P.S. There will be no newsletter next Friday. We’re coming up on Val Thinks’ fifth anniversary and I’m working on something special. See you in two weeks.