The recent marking of the 80th anniversary of D-Day has had me thinking a lot about my father. Dad had served as a lieutenant in the Canadian navy and was truly representative of the “Greatest Generation,” those men and women who weathered the Great Depression of the 1930s, only to be called to fight for our freedom in the Second World War. He was a man of great integrity — hardworking, ethical and honest. But, like so many men of his generation, he struggled with expressing emotion. Could this have been a manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder — a term unknown to that generation — combined with the conditioned emotional control needed during times of war?
Like so many men of his generation, he struggled with expressing emotion.
In my mid-50s, I flew to Calgary several times a year to visit my parents on their ranch southwest of the city. They were in their mid-80s, and my dad had worrying heart problems. Still, by all comparisons he was doing better than most men his age. He raked manure in the corrals, fed the horses, and, after retiring from his 60-year law practice, drove around the countryside to deliver meals on wheels to the “elderly.”
On visits home, I would go with him on these junkets. We’d had an ongoing disagreement about whether he should drive. Dad behind the wheel was a heart-stopping experience. He had undiagnosed glaucoma and had lost all peripheral vision. This caused him to zigzag all over the highway as we puttered along in search of the “shut-ins,” as he called them. One day, to my enormous relief, he allowed me to drive. But when we got to the first destination, I made the mistake of leaping out of the car to retrieve the meal from the trunk. I didn’t want his arthritic body to have to lean over, much less make it up the flagstone path as he carried the large tray.
But just as I reached into the trunk, he barked, “Now, never mind, I’m doing that!”
I looked at him and knew that his concession about the driving was as far as he could go — that every bit of independence he relinquished was, for him, a step closer to death. So, I stood back and watched as he willed his pain away to lift that tray out of the trunk of the car. Then, I crept behind him, arms spread wide, ready to make a save, as he weaved back and forth up the path to deliver the meal to the spry 70-year-old woman waiting inside.
At the end of this visit, when I hugged Dad goodbye, I was careful not to hold him too tight as I felt the frailty of his body and the pain he silently endured. Not until my plane took off and circled east away from the foothills did I put on my dark glasses and let the tears spill. Was this goodbye our last?
Eve Crawford with her father on her wedding day.Courtesy Eve Crawford
Then it hit me then that it wasn’t so much losing him that filled me with sorrow. He had led a rich, eventful life. My deep ache came from the realization that I had never told my father that I loved him, nor the many ways of why.
Never had my dad said he loved me. Such declarations were considered gooey, over the top, suspect even. Was it a generational thing — that giving words to deep feelings trivialized them? Suddenly, I realized that the thought of saying I love you to my father made me anxious.
When I got home, I took the issue to my therapist.
“What do you think is going to happen?” she asked.
“Shock, suspicion. An Oh, Eve! he says whenever I get intense/emotional/theatrical about anything,” I told her.
My therapist and I role-played scenarios.
I would practice saying, “Dad, I love you.”
She threw back every possible negative reaction then counseled me to hold up my hand if he objected and say, “I just wanted you to know. It might not be important to you, but it is important for me to tell you this.”
If necessary, I was to leave the room to give him time to digest this offensive declaration.
On my next trip, I decided it would be best to get this mission over with so I could relax for the rest of my visit. The time to do it would be over pre-dinner drinks. I rarely drink, but on this visit that was a nonnegotiable. I chose gin.
Every night, as I sat chatting and sipping, I looked for an opening to segue into the subject of love. But by the time I got up the courage to take the plunge, my parents had started their nightly fight about who knew best how to cook the frozen peas.
But the gin didn’t work. Every night, as I sat chatting and sipping, I looked for an opening to segue into the subject of love. But by the time I got up the courage to take the plunge, my parents had started their nightly fight about who knew best how to cook the frozen peas. I’d step into the role of umpire, knowing that the only solution was to get them both fed.
After dinner, I shushed them off to bed over protestations that they wanted to help clean up. Fifteen minutes later, Dad entered the kitchen in his knee-length nightshirt, his skinny legs and bare feet completing the picture. He poured his milk, took his pills, then retreated, tossing a “Goodnight, dear” over his shoulder.
Another chance gone.
The last night of my visit, I was desperate. I could barely hear what Mom and Dad were talking about. As their mouths moved up and down, the voice in my head yammered, say it, say it! When I heard the word peas, I panicked.
I slammed down my gin and said, “You know what, Dad?”
I took a big breath. Big mistake. In that second, Dad interjected.
“Oh, Eve! Do you know what that friend of yours Jane said to me the other day?”
Jane had been a close friend since childhood. Her parents were my parents’ best friends. She had a deeply developed spiritual practice, was down to earth, and had a throw-your-head-back, roaring laugh. I loved Jane.
“What, Dad?” I asked, derailed.
“We were all out for dinner, and she turns to me and says, ‘George, do you ever tell your girls that you love them?’”
My heart stopped. Did he know about my plan?
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her I’d never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! All that meditation stuff has made her go nutso. I said, ‘No, Jane, I don’t have to tell them! They know I love them by the things I do. By my actions.’”
I felt myself wilt.
“Still, Dad, it might be nice to hear you say it sometime,” I said quietly.
He stared at me as if I had just said something rude. Then he stood up.
“OK! Let’s get those peas on.”
Alone in the kitchen after dinner, I was in despair. I had thought my difficulty declaring my feelings was of my own making. But my instincts were right on. Declarations of love were met with ridicule, labeled “nutso” and over the top.
As I dried the last pot, Dad shuffled in to swallow down his milk and pills. He looked at the gleaming kitchen.
“Thank you, dear. We’re going to miss you when you go tomorrow.”
I gave him a careful hug.
“Night, Dad.”
He gave me a peck on the cheek.
“Good night.”
Then, as his nightshirt and skinny legs shuffled out of the kitchen, I heard him say over his shoulder, “Tell Jane I love you.”
Dad died a year later. But after that night we never stopped saying how much we loved each other. I still tell him. I hope he can hear me.
Eve Crawford
Eve Crawford is a stage, film, and radio actor. She has written for CBC radio and television as well as written and performed in two one-woman-shows. A single mom, she has raised two sons. She lives in Toronto.
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