My father is dying. And he’s still a jerk.
On Memorial Day, we found out that my dad has lymphoma in his brain. It was a side effect of some of his organ transplant anti-rejection medication (he’s a kidney recipient). Doctors give him a few months left to live. My siblings and I are trying our best to make his last months memorable. I’m not completely sure what I thought would change in his personality. Maybe that he’d suddenly become more grateful for the life he has left? Maybe that he’d be nicer and kinder to my mother? To me? To my siblings?
Unfortunately, none of that is true. If anything, he’s become more impossibly demanding, more needy, more mean. My mother is incapable of making any move that serves anyone else but him without being berated. When it is just us and there is no outside company, he tucks away his sad public persona and his private persona comes out like fangs on a vampire, hissing and spitting at anyone in his vicinity. He’d always been selfish and self-centered, expecting his wife and children to treat him as though he were king. Nothing we did was ever good enough, and nothing made him happy for long. He’d always been high maintenance but this final death notice has only managed to increase his bitterness, resentment, and sense of entitlement.
My mother has always been an enabler, and in many ways, the perfect Hmong wife, bending over backwards and working her fingers to the bone to meet the high demands of my cavalier father. She’d put all of her anxiety, stress, and disappointment on her children, at turns kind and generous, and at other times, cruel and spiteful. It may sound unkind, but in many ways, her quality of life will improve once he’s gone. For now, he’s a shackle around her ankle, constantly barking demands with no regards to how much stress he’s putting on her.
I find it funny that he says he loves her, and I guess in a way, he does to whatever extent he is capable of. I’ve never seen him care for her, even when she’s severely sick. He’s never brought her an aspirin, even if it is only three feet in front of him. He’s never made her rice porridge or a cup of tea. He’s never tucked a blanket around her. He’s never bought her a gift or even a shirt. He never thinks of her except in the extent of how he needs her to serve him.
I truly believe that my parents don’t like each other very much. Their love for one another is drawn from the years of commitment to each other and to the time spent with one another, but actually enjoy each other’s company? No, not so much. How can they when watching them interact when company isn’t around is like watching the clashing of two gorgons screaming and squealing at one another. I’m just waiting for them to make eye contact and turn into stone.
Now that my father’s time is limited, my mother has set to task to lecture my siblings and I at every chance she gets on the virtues of my father. Her revisionist history paints him as a doting, loving father; and those colorful stories may have worked were we naive children still holding onto a fantasy desire of that picturesque father figure. In his dying time, I suppose she wants us to show more warmth, throw ourselves on him and espouse our eternal love; but this is like expecting water from a well that you’ve purposely let run dry.
Still, my siblings and I, we try. On Father’s Day, we had planned to make dinner at my sister’s house — kapoon, my father’s favorite noodle soup. We knew it would be the last Father’s Day we would have with him. My brother and his family would be arriving from out of town the next weekend, so we’d planned to do something big then. A family weekend getaway was planned. Meanwhile, we’d cook Dad is favorite food and spend the day with him. Well, my father chose instead to throw a fit and went to spend his last Father’s Day at the casino, disregarding any and all effort we had put in to make the day memorable for him. And that’s a perfect example of my Dad.
I can’t really say that I’ll miss him when he’s gone. He’d always been more absentee than actually involved. Whenever he was involved in raising me, those moments were usually drenched in terror and fear or disgust and anger. He’s never had a nice thing to say to me or about me. He’s rarely ever said thank you for anything. I suppose the most important thing now is to make peace — with myself. I’ve accepted that making peace with him is an impossibility. You cannot possibly make peace with someone who thinks they’ve never done anything wrong and that you owe them everything. The things I can take from this is understanding of life and people and myself. I’m watching him every day getting weaker, his speech slurring, his bitterness etching into the lines of his swollen face.
In my limited capacity, I’m trying to put my own feelings aside for now and try my best to make him comfortable and to help my mom. He loves and basks in the attention of the relatives that visit and I suppose at least there is that much. Talking about his glory days, sharing the stories of his war exploits makes him feel important and reminds him of how virile he was in his youth. I know first hand that falling from those heights is a hard pill to swallow so I can understand some of his bitterness.
In the end, I may not have the father I want, but this is the one I have. For the final Father’s Day that I’ll ever have with him, I can be happy that he did what he really wanted. If he wants to spend it in a dark casino to the ching ching of coin slot machines, then I’m glad that’s what he got. Growing up means putting aside pretty painted pictures of what we’re told to expect and instead looking at the stark reality of what is. When we die, we return to the dust, and all that will be left of us are the living and their memories of who we were.
Though I have few good moments with my father that I can share, I am glad that there are those that do have many stories of him that are good. I am glad that my relatives can share with me stories of a man I did not know, one who was strong and courageous and who lead so many to safety during the Secret War. I suppose there will be solace in that. People are complicated and multi-faceted, and life takes us far and wide, across oceans and continents, but no matter how many miles we travel, how many lives we touch, time is the only thing we can never outrun.
Happy belated Father’s Day, Dad. I’m glad you spent it how you wanted.
