life is long

JANUARY 19TH

What to say about my  long-dead father who died on this date all those years ago? A sudden heart attack at the age of forty five. It was a Friday morning and he had parked his car in the usual carpark and was walking down Collins Street  in Melbourne, on his way to the office  where he worked. He collapsed on the pavement among the rush hour crowds. 

He was not a happy man. Though my story about who he was changes and shifts as the years pass. He was full of contradictions: a stockbroker who thought he was a socialist, a man who valued honesty, but deceived his wife and had extra-marital affairs. An outwardly successful man who felt like a failure to himself. A writer of tortured poetry. An intellectual with a high IQ, who lacked practical  wisdom and ‘emotional intelligence’.

The hundreds of sympathy cards which my mother and I sifted tearfully through on the kitchen table told us he was kind and generous, charming, witty, and  good looking, the life of the party and a lover of life.

I knew him as a moody, unpredictable parent who told me when I was thirteen that if I didn’t tidy up my messy bedroom, no-one would want to marry me. My brother was warned that if his school reports didn’t improve he would end up sweeping the streets. 

‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions’ and ‘Life is not fair’ and ‘ Out, out, brief candle...’

Dad often passed out drunk in front of the tv. at night, but next day he’d be off to work in his suit and tie. He felt trapped in his life of 9 to 5 monday to friday, trapped in the domestic world of family life in the suburbs. Unhappy in his marriage with my eager-to-please mother, who he grumpily complained was ‘all sweetness and light’ . I doubt whether he would have been happier with anyone else.

Over the years I have, at different times, felt sorry for him, angry with him, and judgemental towards him. I’ve thought him cowardly and abusive and  hypocritical: If it was that bad, why didn’t he leave? Why didn’t he pursue his creative dreams? 

Now I’m older than he was when he died, and  I have some understanding of depression, of midlife crisis, and of the compromises we all make to keep our precious families together. I also think of all the help that’s available to my generation, but wasn’t to his - things  like psycho therapy, personal growth, Buddhist teachings, meditation etc. 

My January 19th 2011 was a pleasant school holiday day. I had an early morning swim and a cafe morning coffee with Noosa friends. F and his friend who slept over last night lounged around  at home,  listening to Cat Empire and Flight Of the Conchords, reading Simpsons comics and  playing cards. Being almost-teenagers. Life is a long journey.