I hardly knew ye

 

My dad meant a lot to me. He taught me much about the world and I do aspire to be like him in many ways. But the thing is, maybe it was the times and how he was raised, or maybe it was just the nature of our relationship – he didn’t teach me what it would feel like to get older.

My dad was always old to me. That may be because at the time, I was young but I don’t recall much changing in him – ever since I can remember, he was not especially athletic and he was mostly bald. He was achy and crotchety and seemed like a quintessential adult. I never got the sense that he was feeling the imposter syndrome of “I’m just a kid in a big old body and have no idea what I’m doing as a grown up.” It always seemed like he had a handle on things. He had political opinions, and civic responsibility. He knew how to make complex decisions and do all the adult stuff, it seemed. He didn't change -- he was a rock, and the same rock the whole time.

I’m a mess. Here it is, 1:34 in the morning and I have forgotten how to fall asleep. I have a sore in my mouth since I keep biting my lip in the same spot because I have, apparently, also forgotten how to not eat myself. I get mystery pains that come and go (transient aches in my toes? Phantom headaches? Clicking in my jaw? Sure, why not. Throw in the knees that sometimes buckle and why not add in constant burping, just to keep things interesting.) Day to day, things change. What I could eat with impunity on a Tuesday upsets me on Wednesday but is fine on Thursday. Yes, I know this means I eat the same thing 3 days in a row. It is a metaphor or something. Just roll with it.

And because I am a digital over-sharer, you all now know this. My dad DID share his thoughts but they were focused on deep philosophical musings on religion or politics, or lists of puns. He rarely shared (at least on his blog) anecdotes about his daily experiences, and somehow I find it significant to write about my lunch at Dunkin Donuts.

My kids, if they are paying attention, will know what to expect when they become old men. Yes, I’m making it all up as I go along and I don’t know if I’m the only one who is, but I feel lost most every day. I can’t figure out my own body let alone my own taxes.

Would things have been easier for me if I knew that at my age, my dad found a mystery bruise on his leg? Would it have been an easier adjustment into this side of 50 if I had been looking out for the change in tolerance for spicy food? Do we owe it to the next generation to catalog every little thing so that they can understand what we went through and what they have on the horizon?

I recall the first time I had a kidney stone. I called my dad and he said “well, it’s genetic – I got one in college also.” I would think that that is the kind of thing one shares before it happens, no? So instead of my freaking out and being convinced that I was in labor, I could have called my dad and had him talk me through it (Lamaze, hypnobirthing, whatever). In the same way that my parents told me to get tested for Tay Sachs (carrier! Take THAT 1950’s society https://comb.io/oQrafR) they could have filled me in on all sorts of stuff. It took my parents’ getting cancer for them to tell me that they had cancer! OK, maybe that last one was too much, but in truth, I only found out about my mom’s having cancer AFTER she had it taken care of. Again, maybe that was their nature, or just the way they were brought up but my kids know my preference in antacids and analgesics; my aches and pains are no secret. I have (somewhere on my computer) a list of what ails me and I write these posts so that they know the inner torment that is being me. No surprises and no secrets.

So is this a better way to connect with my spawn? To let them know my quirks, foibles, fallibility and fears? Will they have a more rounded understanding of me in my dotage because they can trace my path from young guy with hair to older guy with decidedly less hair? Or will this make them more likely to write me off because they have been watching the slow, steady decline for years?

Maybe it is just something about how I view my interaction with the world – I tell my students stories that my teachers never told me about themselves. I talk about my academic difficulties and my personal crises (Sparky the angry, blind dog is legend in my classroom). When I was a boy, we still held on to that notion that teachers disappear when they leave the building (except for the couple that my mom played bridge with – they appeared in the most awkward of times and I was sent to bed, and the one who rode the bus to school and ended up, well, let’s just say he isn’t in the formal educational game anymore). My students see me out and about and we chat about stuff completely non-school related. Did I ever know my English teachers’ favorite sports teams, musical preferences or lunch preferences?

Are we too open or was the generation before us too closed? Is the light of truth too harsh, or is humanizing a good thing?

I don’t know. Remember…I’m making this all up as I go along.