Are You My Father?

by Margo Walter

  My sponsor in recovery told me that I overthought everything. It was a way that I could control or think that I managed what was happening around the people who lived in my world and me. She was right. There was that illusion, and it was hard to let go and just trust. Faith is believing what you cannot see. I had no church home, and my faith was shaky on a regular basis. How did all that play out?

  ***

  It is time for a little introspection. During the search for my father–daughter relationship, there was a dual track happening in my life. My children were spreading their wings and creating experiences of their own. Recapping their movements after high school will help clarify where my kids were during the dark days and afterward in recovery.

  My daughter graduated from high school the same year that our son, David, died, and I remember so little about her graduation. Maybe the ECT took a higher toll than I thought. For whatever reason, those memories are blocked or missing forever.

  Kate moved out of our house when she turned eighteen and enrolled in the local university. We were estranged in so many ways, and I wanted her back. I do not know how she felt during that time of transition, but I felt abandoned. That was a feeling that I knew very well through all my years growing up and into adulthood. It reared its ugly head and simmered over the next few years. Somehow I had that stinkin’ thinkin’ that the world continued to revolve around me, and I was being hurt by my daughter and my son by their absence. I do understand that many parents encounter the empty nest syndrome and feel depressed when their kids go out into the world. Since my moods tend to go to the extreme, there was an overwhelming sense of loss. It was time to let go. Maybe I missed the drama and needed to accept once again that life goes on, circumstances create change, and situations evolve that give us the opportunity for growth. Having said all that, I was so sad to see my daughter, Kate, get her own apartment with four of her high school buddies and not be at the breakfast table. I helped her set up her house, bought her a Mr. Coffee, and visited the retail store where she worked at least once a week.

  My oldest son graduated from high school in 1991 and continued his academic studies in Boulder, Colorado, where he met the girl that he was going to marry. They both transferred to Indiana University to save some money and ended up at the University of New Mexico in El Paso, closer to his fiancée’s family home in Texas. Getting married on a ranch was their decision and was extremely exciting for our family, all but George’s father. He had quite a few words of discontent and was totally ignored. It was the beginning of the end of that father–son relationship. George and his new wife moved to Florida for graduate school, where he had met the Admiral, his grandfather. It had been four years since David’s death.

  The same year we had an incredible call from our oldest son. “Mom, you are now a grandma.” It was exciting news, and I could not wait to head south and visit our new grandson, Kevin. That first visit was magical. He looked just like his father when he was born. George weighed eight pounds and fourteen ounces at birth, and his new son was also a big baby and a bright-eyed toe-head. My only disappointment was that they lived so far away. I did manage several visits and watched him grow into a highly active toddler. About that time, George asked if we could bring them a puppy. Since our son was in graduate school studying biology, chemistry, and physics, it was not a surprise that the puppy was named Photon (a particle of light). Kevin and Photon became best buds, and we had no idea where that would go.

  The following year during Christmas, George, his wife, and Kevin, came to visit. The weather was unusually warm on the farm, and George asked if we could go for a walk. I was excited by the invitation and put on my muckrakers to walk around the pasture with the goats. George does not mince words. “I have decided to get a divorce.” “What?” I was not prepared for that announcement, and it was going to upset my Norman Rockwell Christmas. My husband and I loved his wife, our daughter-in-law, and rated their marriage as a 10. However, this was not about us. Living out of state, George was more distant than our daughter, but I thought that I had a good pulse on his marital life. Wrong. The reasons for the separation were not significant as the acceptance that his family was breaking up. We were still wandering around the pasture and turned to head home. The Christmas week and the few family traditions that we maintained continued with the elephant in the middle of the room. I spent as much time as possible with my grandson and held him just a little bit tighter than previous visits.

  Being a grandmother is more comfortable for me than being a mother. I had an excellent mentor, Grandma Lee. She even looked like a grandma. Gray hair that sparkled in the sunshine and round glasses that lit up her eyes are the two images that always come to mind. She was short, the shortest one in the family, and kind of plump, but not fat. I still cannot figure how her nurturing, caring, loving personality skipped my mother’s generation big time. Grandma Lee was my rock in a totally dysfunctional family. At age five, I went to spend two weeks with Grandma in Iowa. It is perplexing how I cannot remember what happened five years ago, but I can recall that summer in the country. We spent most of the vacation netting butterflies and pressing them into the World Book Encyclopedia, Volume J for Janet. Environmentalists and “Save the Butterfly” groups would not have approved, but that just never came up. I sat on my grandma’s lap on her front step. She would give me big hugs and tell me how beautiful I was. There was a grandpa, but he just stayed to himself. Grandma Lee would spend hours (probably minutes) brushing my hair and putting bright ribbons on top to hold back my bangs. I remember these things, or I have seen the photos and perceive these moments. It does not really matter. Grandma Lee continued to be a safe haven in a storm. Through the years she would visit my mother and share her love with all of us. I am fairly sure Grandma preferred granddaughters over grandsons because my younger sister, Lynn, got the same special treatment as I remember. I never asked my mother why she could not be more like her mother, but I sure thought it. It would take my mother seventy more years to say “I love you.”

  Chapter 10: I Am Responsible

  Parenting is a big topic. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of books on that subject and I have read quite a few. It just seems that parenting skills and behaviors are passed from one generation to the next. God, I love my kids, but how do I raise them?

  There was unfortunately not a nurturing gene in my mother, and she spent most of her life trying to avoid mothering. I knew that she was not a great role model, and I am so thankful that I had Grandma Lee and my childhood family, the Pierces, to emulate. The week that my grandmother died, I was able to talk to her on the phone and tell her that my life had turned around. I was sober and in a recovery program. I told her how much I loved her, and she said, “I love you too, and you make me so very happy.” What a beautiful gift she gave me, and it would last a lifetime.

  ***

  What about my children? There were many parenting skills that I learned the hard way. An event would take place and we could accept it or we could not accept it. There were no other options. George not only got a divorce that year, but he announced a new wife from Serbia. He had graduated from his doctoral program in Florida, and he was going to move to California for a postdoctoral program at Stanford. We were asked to come pick up Photon, since it was impossible to find housing in Palo Alto for a huge yellow Labrador Retriever. Oh, by the way, Photon had been taught only Serbian commands and did not speak English anymore. That was a challenge. Do we continue his Serbian and teach our eight other Labs a new language? Absolutely not. We picked up Photon and said our goodbyes. I feared that I had lost my grandson after the divorce, and now my son was moving 2,700 miles away from me.

  ***

  About that time, I discovered a huge resentment from working the 12 Steps that AA suggests. It is a procedure that allows you to visit your past, make amends for any wrongdoing, and identify those persons that you feel have negatively affected you. I had a great deal of anger direct
ed at my ex-husband, who I felt had not only harmed me but also hurt David inconsolably. My middle son had lived with his father in Colorado from the time he was ten years old until he graduated from high school. After graduation he was told to go to college or whatever, but he must make his own way in life at eighteen years of age. That is when David caught up with his older brother and followed George to Las Cruces, New Mexico. As mentioned earlier, I do not think David ever committed to a college or one area of interest, other than disk golf. After all, he was my free-spirited, artistic, creative boy of few words. That is where the resentment unfolded. After David’s death, I blamed his father for the tragedy and maintained if David had not been kicked out of his house at eighteen, maybe he would have not dropped out of college, gone to Mexico, or died at such a young age. That “what if” reasoning was not helping my emotional sobriety and it was time to let go of the huge resentment. It did not happen overnight. After years of learning how to let go and practicing rational reasoning, I have successfully forgiven Wes and learned to “move on.”

  There are many early years in David’s life that I cannot recall and periods of his childhood living with his father that I was not privy to. Accepting the memories that I have and sharing David’s story as mine unfolds is a gift that keeps on giving.

  ***

  When I was attempting to raise my three children, it did occur to me that despite my criticism of my parents, adoptive or biological, there was one fact that I could not deny. All had left me a vibrant legacy that included words, deeds, and character. In some cases, I learned what not to do. But there were some lessons that I was taught which would benefit me for my lifetime.

  ***

  My mother, Dottie Marie, was the most dynamic and strongest woman I have ever met. She did not lift weights or bench 200 pounds. Her strengths were her persistence and incredible ability to think creatively. During dark periods when her dreams slipped away, she stood taller, worked harder, and pushed her way to success in the business world. What about the private sector, her family? It took years of experience, but I now know how difficult it is to live with an alcoholic, bury one, and not let addictions ruin your life. My mother was the best enabler ever. And yet, she survived without being sucked into the disease of alcoholism. Living with my stepfather had to be sheer hell. The confusion, the disappointments, the constant crisis usually destroys the alcoholic’s significant other. It just caused my mother to work smarter, to hold things together, and to be persistent in her own goals. The critical objective for my mother during my early years was to make money, lots of money. If that meant standing tall and supporting her husband at his worst, she was in for the long hall. The development and construction business thrived, and my mother should take all the credit. She gave me her tenacity and her business acuity that would show up in my future careers.

  What about the alcoholic? What did Al Williams, my stepfather, give me as his legacy? For years I blamed him for my alcoholism. After all, we know there is a genetic, familial connection in the disease. There was one big problem. I did not have his genes and was not remotely related to him. It was time to let him off the hook for that one. However, being an alcoholic is not easy either. He was a brilliant man, obviously loved my mother, and just could not stop drinking. God knows that he tried. Alcoholism did not kill him, but it would have eventually. The brain tumor that took his life was insidious, and he survived two brain surgeries to cut it out. He lived three years when the medical professionals gave him two months. Al Williams’s middle name was “persistence.” He seemed bigger than life sometimes. He actually was, big that is. He stood tall at six feet four inches with broad shoulders and a long gait. Whenever I tried to keep up with him while walking the beach, I had to speed walk just to stay close. I think that he loved me, at least sometimes. He had deep-blue piercing eyes and an enormous belly laugh. It came from deep inside his stomach and lasted an exceptionally long time. I think that I heard him laugh about once a week. I never kept track, but I remember him coming home early almost every Friday. He was usually in a good mood, and that is when he would laugh at something, anything. What did I learn from my stepfather? Once I accepted that I was an alcoholic, I remembered his fight and how he lost. If he could not stop drinking, why would I be able to do that? The legacy that I received was a gift of knowledge and experience from one alcoholic to another. I needed help to live my life sober and would never make it alone.

  ***

  Where does character come from? That is a loaded question that has baffled philosophers, scientists, and psychiatrists alike. How much is nature and how much is nurture? It has always been interesting to me that I do not question my light switch on the wall. I do not ponder and spend endless nights asking how electricity works. Radio waves are another common occurrence that leave me speechless. Cell phones? You have the idea. My disposition and my personality do come from somewhere or someone. Who did pass on these glaring traits? Let’s look at the bad stuff first.

  Self-righteous anger, free-floating fear, outright stubbornness, inability to always be truthful, and extremely poor self-esteem make up the list that you will see in my therapist’s file folder. I have addressed each of these with several sponsors and counselors over the years and have unsuccessfully blamed my parents for passing on to me these character defects. My conclusion is that I am human and not incredibly unique. In other words, these are emotions that all of us possess, and we work hard not to let them overrun our lives. All the intangible feelings that rule our behavior are who we are. I am no exception.

  Fortunately, there are positive emotions too. Persistence, courage, compassion, and creativity, to name a few. The battle begins. Yes, my bipolar disorder and my alcoholism add another ingredient to the equation. I have come to realize that my mother, my stepfather, my biological father, and my grandmother left me a legacy that helped to shape who I am becoming. The roads to life, the journey, not the destination, give me direction. Life is not a race. People who are part of this life adventure contribute immensely to my character, good and bad. My job is to grow spiritually and ethically to be the best person that I can be. I have all this insight and what do I do with it?

  Chapter 11: Learning to Soar

  Back to the farm and present day. Our daughter is married, has one beautiful red-headed son, and lives less than twenty minutes up the road, or up the road “a piece” as they say here in our county. Kate entered the computer software industry and quickly moved up the ladder to be a successful sales manager and vice president. She is married to a terrific man, husband, and father. Having my daughter and my daughter’s family close in proximity is especially important to me as I watch her walk through her own roads of life and can share her experiences. Having my youngest grandson for weekly visits, watching his baseball games, and fielding his constant why, how, when questions are such a blessing.

  George is now living in California. After trying to make a failing marriage work, he moved to Texas to be near his two sons, Brad and Bobbie, and met the love of his life. They were married last February and moved to San Francisco to pursue excellent job opportunities. My son is incredibly innovative and is in the process of starting up his own research company. He and his new wife recently celebrated the birth of their child, Sophie, my first granddaughter.

  Chris is retired from teaching school and spends a great deal of time taking our certified therapy dogs to visit different facilities. Delivering their unconditional love is extremely rewarding to him, and I am enormously proud of all that he does to help others.

  I am a retired licensed professional counselor. The transition from the school system to a licensed therapist was not smooth but most rewarding. That journey needs to be shared.

  ***

  When I was a school counselor, there was an underlying frustration that made the job ineffective. Serving as the sole guidance counselor in an elementary school with 420 students, it was impossible to address all the needs and wants
. When there was a crisis, parents were often a part of the problem but rarely a part of the solution. Excellent teachers and devoted staff could not always fix what was broken. As the school counselor, I often felt like I was putting a Band-Aid on a problem that needed major surgery. Family counseling, engaging the entire family would be so much more effective, but rarely occurred. I wanted to learn more, to experience more, and to help more. Fourteen challenging courses, an internship, and a state exam were required to move into this new direction. I completed the coursework, landed an internship in the local community services organization, and just needed to pass the licensing test to become a licensed professional counselor. Sometimes it feels like you are jumping over the hurdles and hitting a brick wall, or there is just not enough Kleenex.

  ***

  How can one person’s nose run continuously and her eyes flow like a faucet? I had no cold, no allergies that I knew of, and had never heard of this phenomenon as a reaction to stress.

  Here I sat with a small Kleenex packet and no explanation for what was happening to me. There were twenty people in the room lined up, one behind the other, in medium-sized student desks in four rows. Someone must have marked where each chair should be placed because it seemed too perfect as to how the chairs were all facing the test proctor in the front of the room. It reminded me of cadets at a memorial service in perfect formation standing silently waiting for their commander’s next order. However, this was not a funeral, it just felt that way.

  This was one of the most important tests in my life. It was going to determine my second career. I had already completed sixteen graduate courses, but this was the big hurdle. Unless I passed this exam, I would not be a mental health professional, be licensed, or be able to practice as a therapist. In other words, I had to pass this test.