I Told My Dad I Loved Him The Other Day
One phone call can change the world forever.
I’m a half-decent crier.
A few days ago, in the middle of the afternoon, I couldn’t stop crying. While sitting at my desk, I broke down. I sat in this feeling for a while, then texted Madeline and told her, “I miss my parents.” I broke down even harder after texting these words.
Nothing I did stopped the tears.
That’s still my go-to response to tears, to make them stop.
I don’t think I try to stop tears for any particular reason. I’m not your prototypical “man’s man” who’s afraid to cry. But I always, without fail, at least for a second, try to stop them when I recognize they’re coming.
I couldn’t stop these; I was at work, and I tried.
Memories of childhood flooded my tears while staring out of our shared office space at the Toronto Star.
I cried off and on all afternoon.
The moving pictures of my childhood that are trapped in my brain are usually set outdoors, usually on a lake or in a bush, fishing or camping. Most of the time, when the documentary of my life plays in my head, my siblings are there, my grandmothers, aunts, and uncles are there, and my parents are there.
I have childhood memories of me laying on the floor of my house watching whatever was on TV while my mom burned the pork chops between her shifts as a worker at the Friendship Centre and a college student working toward a degree. I have other memories of my dad falling asleep in his chair after his shift at the mill and a quick nap before he took me to hockey or went out to coach minor hockey in town.
These memories remind me why my mom is my hero and why I deeply love my dad. They tried their best with the cards they were dealt.
They were both dealt some shit cards, let me tell you.
Maybe that’s why I cried.
Once in a while, my brain clears the murky waters of childhood and reminds me that my parents are human, deeply flawed humans who tried their best with us kids. I need never to forget that.
Oddly, coincidentally, my dad called late that same night when I broke down at work. It was odd because our calls usually have a purpose; we rarely call just to chat. But this time, he called…just to chat.
It was a long and sprawling call. We covered all the news on my four kids. We went over the milestones of my older kids, my daughters. I bragged about their work and their school and how proud of the humans they have become. I bitched a little bit about how busy our two babies are and how tired I always am.
And then, out of nowhere, I told my Dad I loved him.
I don’t think I’d ever told him like this.
There was no cheap joke that followed me telling him. Just a quiet stillness that was only broken by the sound of me crying after I said it.
I probably waited too long to say these words.
Somewhere behind the hustle and the work and the challenge of raising a family, paying the bills, and keeping my life on the rails, I haven’t said this enough to either of my parents: it’s awful.
We sat on the phone and cried together while we both took turns choking out pain and tears and traumas from a long time ago.
He was really hard on us as kids, sometimes unreasonably so. He said so on our call. I know how hard this was for him; I could hear it in his voice. I don’t know exactly what is trapped in his mind or what he feels guilty about, but I forgive him. I didn't believe that I needed to forgive him, but this call told me I had to, and during the call, I learned that I wanted to.
I don’t know what I had to forgive him for; it was nothing specific, just for who he was back then.
And that’s the hard part.
My dad was and is a great dad, mostly.
He did what he could with what he had and didn’t have much when I was born. I knew that even back then. I could tell. I remember feeling it. But I also remember knowing he tried to be good even when things were hard.
He didn’t have much when I was born but gave us everything he could—he gave me the most. He kept skates on my feet. Somehow, when I played AA and AAA hockey, I never missed a hockey tournament. There was always money for a new stick or a weekend away with my teams. I don’t know how he did it.
The other day, I didn’t have $40 to send to my daughter for her Uber ride to and from her last university exam. It was devastating not to be able to help her at that moment. I got so much from my parents. It makes me want to give that to my children—even when I can’t. And that’s what my parents taught me. They taught me to give, be generous, and give everything I have because it will return to me eventually.
My dad is my hero. He had a tough childhood. His dad was a war veteran, and he came home from the war sick and damaged. His dad drank a lot when he came back from war, and through the stories I’ve heard, and I’ve only ever heard a couple of stories, tried to be a good dad but just couldn’t.
Like many of you, I come from a long line of hurt men—men who didn’t have the courage or the stamina to be better, to change, to heal.
My dad did find that courage a couple of years after I was born.
He went to jail.
He was an alcoholic and an addict.
And then he got clean. He went to AA.
He worked. Really hard.
He committed his life to his kids and his wife, my mom.
He wasn’t/isn’t perfect. Who is?
My dad’s mistakes don’t define him; his life in its totality does.
And he has done his best. I’m proud of him. I’m so fucking proud of him.
I am proud to be his son.
I told him all of this on the phone.
A few years ago, I found the courage to change, to be better, to begin healing. I got sober. I’m a work in progress, the same way he is.
My dad’s courage to change, to get better, and to heal inspires me to do the same.
I told him I loved him on the phone the other day. He’s coming here in a few weeks to meet Thomas Rose; he hasn’t met the baby yet. It’ll be great to have him here.
I can’t wait to tell him I love him again, this time in person.
If you’re reading this, take a pause and think whether there is anyone in your life whom you didn’t know you had to forgive. Then, find that person and forgive them.
Tell them you love them.
It’s the greatest gift you can give yourself and them.
This is beautiful, My love.