Aside from my experiences caring for my mother, I have disclosed little about my family through my artwork or writings. In a practical sense, because they have been an ever-shrinking presence in my life, but more importantly out of respect for their privacy. My friends are familiar with the nature of my life and work, and are unsurprised if they — for example — show up in a comic. Family members never chose to be associated with me; they simply are, and I have never assumed their consent. When I need to share my perspectives, I make efforts to restrict myself to information and events directly influencing me. But today I am going to slightly violate that policy, because I no longer care.
My thirty-second birthday was Thursday — and my father ruined it. I received no card from him, and no gift, but that is not what this post is about. What I did receive was a phone call. I had already been disappointed by him when, over the entire month of December, he was unable or unwilling to make time to come see my Christmas tree. Matt and I visited him in January to deliver some items I had purchased for him and my sister. While there he ignored my request to go to one of our favourite restaurants, and instead took us to eat where a waitress he happened to be spending time with was working. I was suspicious of this, but said nothing. My father made no attempt to contact me for another six weeks… until Thursday evening. He went through the motions of asking about me, clearly uninterested, waiting for an opening to inform me that he has been dating the waitress we previously met. He then asked how I would feel about her coming to dinner. I answered calmly and honestly that it would be somewhat awkward, because she is my age. I suggested that we go out for dinner, regardless. He refused to discuss the situation further, and hung up the phone. I passed the next twenty-four hours so upset that I was unable to sleep or to eat anything without literally vomitting in my mouth.
This waitress, who has since been fired for failing to show up for work, is two years younger than me. She has a young dependent child, no vehicle, and no valid driver’s license. My father has been saving for years and is only months away from retirement. Over a few short weeks, he has almost abandoned his children and grandchildren to squander his retirement on this woman. He has displayed no regard for the consequences of his actions, and what I can only assume was a delusional expectation that she would be welcomed with open arms. His behaviour has changed dramatically and only for the worse. He has expressed no hesitation toward throwing his flesh and blood to the wolves in service to this relationship. My mother would be disgusted. I am disgusted.
My father, of course, has every right to make his own choices, and do what is necessary to be happy. After all, we are each given one lifetime in this world. But similarly, I have the right of refusal to participate in his choices. I cannot condone this… I have bitten my tongue until I tasted blood about everything important to me, even as his beliefs have grown more hostile and obnoxious, in order to maintain a relationship. But I will not watch him destroy his future. This is where I draw the line. I am severing until this foolishness has passed, possibly forever. I have always been a foreigner in a strange land anyway.
While my mother lay dying in hospice care, my father at one point confided in me that his children were a disappointment. He wanted doctors and lawyers, you see. “Maybe,” he said with a sigh, “I just didn’t give y’all the genetics for that.” I raised my eyebrows and he attempted to backpedal immediately, but I knew then and have always known how he feels. He is a simple man from a blue collar background, who would have made nearly any necessary sacrifice for his children to achieve society’s standard of making it. Our realities began their irrevocable drift apart while I was a teenager. During the months where I was a caretaker, I sat at my parents’ dining room table daily, inking comics and working while my mother slept. With pencils, brushes, and my computer strewn out in front of him, my father never once asked what I was doing. He could explain no more about who I am as a person than most of you reading this. I have been ignored, patronized, tolerated, and hurt for the last time.
My father is not a bad person. We always had plenty of food, clothing, and a good home. He has always met all of his obligations. But that is all that they are — obligations — and a healthy, adult relationship cannot be sustained on obligations alone. If even this birthday-and-holidays farce has now fallen by the wayside for a destructive infatuation, then there is nothing left. So I must move on, it seems, and make my own choices to live and cultivate happiness. I wish that I could tell you I am surprised. I am very rarely surprised.
