I haven't written about my uncle in a while; he's now nearly 99 years old and has been living in the nursing home "section" of an area rehab facility since August of last year. I have never written about my father in this blog; he's now 94 years old and has been living with my actively addicted brother in a rental since forever. My uncle and my father were never close as brother-in-laws throughout my childhood---though now they are about 50' apart from one another at an area hospital. I asked my uncle yesterday if he wanted to get into a wheelchair to go and "visit" my father just round the corner from his room. His immediate response was "No, no, no!" I get it Uncle B. No, no, no is just how I've been feeling too lately...
My father's story is one for the books. His own father died when being operated on for a bullet wound in 1921. My father was three years old at the time. Raised in a small village outside of Sibenik, Croatia...my father's paternal grandfather returned to Croatia from the U.S.A. to "take care of" his daughter-in-law and her young family. The only time my father discussed this with me was on a road trip we took when I was pregnant with my daughter (now nearly 27 years old!). At that time, he told me that his grandfather used to beat him regularly. I figured as much, since my father and mother both felt completely free to beat my brother and I regularly too as children. But I digress....
My father also had a sister he never mentioned "ever". She died at fourteen years of age (my father was ten years old at the time). I found out about this aunt of mine from a cousin who now lives on the other side of the world in Australia. She thinks our aunt died from consumption; since my father has never spoken about her, I wonder if he knows something different.
When World War II began and my father was in his 20's, he left his village to join a resistence fighter group referred to as the "Chetniks". During the Bosnian War of the 90s, the Chetniks were made famous for their terroristic activities against Croatians and Muslims. During my childhood, I was raised on the notion that the "Chetniks" were God's army against communism and the dreaded "Ustasha" who slaughtered innocent Serbian Christians on Hitler's behalf during World War II. To tell you the truth, I don't know what went down over there....but I do know what went down over here having my father as my father growing up. And believe me, there were many times when I thought it would be better for me to have been living over there in Croatia than to be raised here in my father's house.
But I digress again...
By the time my father made his way over to Canada after World War II ended, he eventually met my mother at a dance in Windsor. He was 36 and she was 26. He proposed at her mother's funeral wake. They had been dating only months by that time. Since my mother's father was already dead, her only sister newly married, and her mother extremely abusive and "losing it" with each passing day...my mother said "Yes!" And the rest is history...
There's a saying "Water finds its own level." when it comes to primary love relationships. No crap. My mother and father, each in their own way, contributed their legacies of extreme abuse and neglect to their newly-created roles and relationship as man and wife. As my aunt put it not too long ago, "They just weren't meant for family life." No crap Sherlock. By the time I and my only brother arrived on the scene, my parents were already entrenched in their own private version of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" mixed in with every other movie focused on extreme abuse, neglect, addiction, and denial.
And now here we are in 2012 and my father is dying. When he grabbed my hand at the hospital yesterday, my overwhelming and initial feeling was that of fear and dread. Some things never change. But, by God's grace and mercy, the words that came out of my mouth never gave my gut feelings away. I am suddenly reminded right now of the poem by Mother Theresa that talks about how "people" are and can be...and how we have to be "anyway" in spite of the slings and arrows others shoot at us. For in the end, it is between them and God...and not them and us "anyway". Don't get me wrong; it was very difficult being there with him. And it will be again today. Yet I know I have to keep focused on what matters most---and for me that is ushering him before the throne of the Most High so he can make his peace with Him before it is literally and spiritually too late.
Yes, I wish our relationship (which never was!) would have been different. I wish my father would have been the kind of man and father that our daughter could have known, and would have been safe knowing, and could have loved freely and openly as most grandchildren do with their grandfathers and grandmothers. But sadly, it just was not meant to be. For me....or for her. Perhaps in the life that follows this one, things will be different. I can only hope and pray that's the case. In the meantime, I'm grateful for the skill I've been graced with of breathing underwater---for now...
Until next time...
My father's story is one for the books. His own father died when being operated on for a bullet wound in 1921. My father was three years old at the time. Raised in a small village outside of Sibenik, Croatia...my father's paternal grandfather returned to Croatia from the U.S.A. to "take care of" his daughter-in-law and her young family. The only time my father discussed this with me was on a road trip we took when I was pregnant with my daughter (now nearly 27 years old!). At that time, he told me that his grandfather used to beat him regularly. I figured as much, since my father and mother both felt completely free to beat my brother and I regularly too as children. But I digress....
My father also had a sister he never mentioned "ever". She died at fourteen years of age (my father was ten years old at the time). I found out about this aunt of mine from a cousin who now lives on the other side of the world in Australia. She thinks our aunt died from consumption; since my father has never spoken about her, I wonder if he knows something different.
When World War II began and my father was in his 20's, he left his village to join a resistence fighter group referred to as the "Chetniks". During the Bosnian War of the 90s, the Chetniks were made famous for their terroristic activities against Croatians and Muslims. During my childhood, I was raised on the notion that the "Chetniks" were God's army against communism and the dreaded "Ustasha" who slaughtered innocent Serbian Christians on Hitler's behalf during World War II. To tell you the truth, I don't know what went down over there....but I do know what went down over here having my father as my father growing up. And believe me, there were many times when I thought it would be better for me to have been living over there in Croatia than to be raised here in my father's house.
But I digress again...
By the time my father made his way over to Canada after World War II ended, he eventually met my mother at a dance in Windsor. He was 36 and she was 26. He proposed at her mother's funeral wake. They had been dating only months by that time. Since my mother's father was already dead, her only sister newly married, and her mother extremely abusive and "losing it" with each passing day...my mother said "Yes!" And the rest is history...
There's a saying "Water finds its own level." when it comes to primary love relationships. No crap. My mother and father, each in their own way, contributed their legacies of extreme abuse and neglect to their newly-created roles and relationship as man and wife. As my aunt put it not too long ago, "They just weren't meant for family life." No crap Sherlock. By the time I and my only brother arrived on the scene, my parents were already entrenched in their own private version of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" mixed in with every other movie focused on extreme abuse, neglect, addiction, and denial.
And now here we are in 2012 and my father is dying. When he grabbed my hand at the hospital yesterday, my overwhelming and initial feeling was that of fear and dread. Some things never change. But, by God's grace and mercy, the words that came out of my mouth never gave my gut feelings away. I am suddenly reminded right now of the poem by Mother Theresa that talks about how "people" are and can be...and how we have to be "anyway" in spite of the slings and arrows others shoot at us. For in the end, it is between them and God...and not them and us "anyway". Don't get me wrong; it was very difficult being there with him. And it will be again today. Yet I know I have to keep focused on what matters most---and for me that is ushering him before the throne of the Most High so he can make his peace with Him before it is literally and spiritually too late.
Yes, I wish our relationship (which never was!) would have been different. I wish my father would have been the kind of man and father that our daughter could have known, and would have been safe knowing, and could have loved freely and openly as most grandchildren do with their grandfathers and grandmothers. But sadly, it just was not meant to be. For me....or for her. Perhaps in the life that follows this one, things will be different. I can only hope and pray that's the case. In the meantime, I'm grateful for the skill I've been graced with of breathing underwater---for now...
Until next time...