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Today is Father's Day. For many of us, it is an extremely difficult 24 hours to get through. When I think of my dad and grandfather who have been gone from this world for too long, I am filled with regrets of things I didn't say and sadness for some of the things I did.
For whatever reasons, my father and I didn't share that closeness that some fathers and daughters share. Coming from divorced parents, there were times growing up when he was too busy to see my brother and me.
Then, as an adult, I became too busy. Busy with work. Busy with my children. Busy with my own life. Somehow too busy to stay in touch as much as I could have. As much as I should have.
There were the phone calls at Christmastime and on birthdays. The occasional visit here and there, visiting and playing board games. Trips to see him at the Weirton Senior Center where he liked to spend a lot of his days. But there should have been more. There should have been a lot more.
Of course, he was always there when I truly needed him to be. At my high school and college graduations, to walk me down the aisle when I got married. At my childrens' birthday parties and for many Christmas Eve gatherings at my mother's house. I took those moments for granted because … well, because that's what a father is supposed to do when asked. He shows up.
However, there is one particular instance that will always stand out in my mind of a time when he showed up. And it was then that I understood.
It wasn't about just "showing up" because that is what a dad does. This one taught me just how much my father actually cared about me. And how much he really did love my little family.
It was almost eight years ago. I was having a small going-away party for my youngest son, as he was leaving to join the Air Force. (The branch of service my dad said he should join.) Despite struggling daily and dying from a horrific illness and suffering unimaginable pain, he slowly walked in to that party with his son, Devin, assisting him every step of the way. Oxygen tank and all. I was not expecting that. And this was not a visit that I took for granted.
Shortly afterward, I had to say my final goodbyes to the man I should have been closest to in this life. I was heartbroken. But more than that, I was mad. I still am.
Mad because life was never fair to him. Mad his mother walked out on him and his family when he was only a baby. Mad he had to endure years fighting in a war that none of us could even begin to understand -- except for those who also went through it.
To this day, I am mad he had to suffer for the rest of his life from the effects of that war. The war which ultimately changed him. The war that changed each and every soldier who was fortunate enough to even come home.
My dad never spoke to me of those times. I'm not sure if he even talked about it with anyone. And despite never hearing him utter one word, I know he was heroic. I know that you don't earn Bronze Stars for valor and Purple Hearts for nothing. And the only reason I know this is because my mom told me.
He was quiet about his life. At least he was to me. Perhaps he was that way because it hurt too much. Maybe it was because he didn't want to remember. It could have been because he felt he had to appear strong and act as if nothing was bothering him at all. At least that's what I've always told myself.
And ultimately, for those reasons, I want everyone who ever loved him to know that I believe he loved you back the best he possibly knew how to.
Whenever we would go somewhere, he introduced me to anyone he talked to -- even if I had met them before. He always seemed proud to tell them I was his daughter. I should have been a better daughter.
And I am mad because he had to suffer such awful pain those last few years of his life. That is no life.
I remember the last time I saw my dad in the way I had always known him to be ... before he went into a hospital that would change the outcome of his life forever. He was at the senior center, smoking a cigarette and smiling at everybody that passed by. Being his humorous self. He always made me laugh.
In a way, that day was like a final goodbye as to what he had always been.
I remember giving him a hug after he walked me to my car, announcing he would be getting surgery the following week. Little did I know I would never see him look that way again. His life would now consist of being in and out of hospitals. Not being able to eat. Having to deal with such excruciating physical pain being added to the emotional pain he for so long tried to bury.
The remainder of my visits with him would consist of heartbreak. Heartbreak I could never let him see. Maybe because I, too, have to appear strong and as if nothing bothers me. Must be where I get it from. I never knew what to say to him. I never knew how to act. Because I didn't want him thinking I felt sorry for him, even though I did.
I believe he spent his entire life not wanting anyone to feel that way about him. So I certainly didn't want him to see that in my eyes. So, my visits were few. Phone calls were for rare occasions. You know, like when I was young.
And I am mad. Mad at myself for not being the daughter I should have been.
Mad that he has been gone for far too long and we will never have any more moments … Moments of hearing his voice whenever he called me, "Juju." Or listening to his amazing laugh while watching the "Little Rascals" or the "Three Stooges." Or "Gunsmoke." Who laughs at "Gunsmoke?" But for some reason … he did.
I didn't know a whole lot about my dad. But I do know he loved to fish. And I hate fishing. I know he enjoyed going to the lake. How I hate lakes. But what I wouldn't give to go fishing on a lake with him this Father's Day. He loved his oldies music. And his dog. Two of my very favorite things.
He liked playing cards. I remember when my brother and I were little and we visited him when he was playing poker with his friends. They played for pennies.
He taught an 8-year-old how to play Seven Card Stud and Spit in the Ocean. I loved it. I loved him. I pray he finally is in a place where there is no longer any more hurting. I hope he found a heaven that gave him a peace which he never knew on earth. And how I look forward to being in that paradise with him ... a paradise consisting of two fishing poles and a lake.
For I know we see each other again. Until then, Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
(Stenger is the community editor of the Herald-Star and the Weirton Daily Times)