Dads Under Construction

by Neil Campbell

  My parents tried everything they possibly could. They even sent a physician to Europe to attend a conference on lupus, which had just recently been identified as an illness. However, he returned with no news on how to treat the condition.

  Over the next several months, our family tried to live life normally. My sister became increasingly ill, and eventually she was unable to attend school. She was frequently at home in bed, often sleeping, and her classmates would bring her homework to her. By Christmas time, my sister was not able to leave her room, and the family would take turns sitting vigil with her. Sometimes several of us were together with her. My younger sister Jean and I were never really informed about our sister’s actual condition. We believed that she would recover in time.

  I remember that Christmas season well. Jeanette was unable to get out of bed to join in the festivities. Jean and I would often read her stories and visit her in her room in an attempt to cheer her up, but for the most part she would just lie there sleeping. On one rare occasion when Jeanette was well enough and felt energized, she and several of her friends went downtown and she had a picture taken of her, which she gave to my parents as a gift. Accompanying this photograph was a note expressing how much she loved them. She was obviously aware that her situation was serious.

  In January, my sister was taken to the hospital for several visits. Later that month, I was home alone with her, sitting next to her bedside, when she screamed out in pain and went into convulsions. I was not sure what to do and tried to hold her in the bed until she calmed down. I called the family doctor who rushed over. I also called for an ambulance, and Jeanette was taken to the hospital. I never saw her again. She died several days later, in the early morning hours, with my father at her bedside.

  My father drove home from the hospital and both he and my mother functioned as if nothing had happened. They felt that they should get everything in order before they told Jean and me. I recall my father driving both my sister and me to school and then, shortly thereafter, showing up to take us home again. Then they informed us of Jeanette’s death.

  Throughout the difficult time when my sister was at home ill, each evening my mother would go into the bathroom and cry. I remember standing in the hallway and hearing her, unsure of what was happening. My father withdrew, becoming silent and sullen. He did a great deal of outside work around the house, but he seemed to do it in isolation. Shortly after my sister died, a neighbour attempted to bring some flowers to the door, and my father burst out in anger at the neighbour and slammed the door in her face. My sister’s bedroom remained untouched for several years, and my father made it clear that Jean and I were not to go in it.

  My father was unable to acknowledge the fact that my sister had died. My mother at least expressed her grief, but my father held everything inside. Over time, my sister became idealized in the family. My father developed a depression that would remain with him for the rest of his life.

  At the time of her death, Jeanette was seven years older than I was. For my father and mother, Jeanette blazed the trail for each of them to understand what it was to have a child who was going through adolescence. My father had to learn how to parent differently from what he had experienced as a child. He could not expect her to constantly be working like he had to. Jeanette became very close to my father’s brother and mother and enjoyed visiting them on the farm. She had a special attachment with them and with my father.

  The helplessness that my parents felt must have been terrible during those last six months, as my sister’s illness worsened. My mother was able to vent it, though only to herself; my father, meanwhile, was not.

  My father always told me that time goes by quickly and that children grow up fast. It was always difficult for me to understand this concept. However, now that I have my own children, and one of them has recently entered her teen years, I see how quickly time has gone by. It is important to live with your children, to be there and be involved in all levels of activity in their lives as they grow and change. Being a part of the lives of your children is a truly enriching experience. Watching them grow up is something that you will treasure forever. My father felt that time had slipped by too quickly in his relationship with Jeanette, and then it was gone.

  Besides learning just how quickly time passes, I have come to see how important it is to keep channels of communication open and to express feelings with your child as much as is reasonably possible, being sensitive to what they can actually understand. Unfortunately, my father held everything in during this time, developing in the process an incredible level of frustration and anger. As he internalized this anger, he became depressed, bursting out in rage from time to time at the smallest infraction. I believe there were times that my father avoided talking about my sister because it was too difficult for him to deal with his feelings. What my father did not want to recall, he could not forget about. It would have helped him to have expressed some feelings, both inside and outside of the family. To share some of the situation within the family would have helped us all, but he understandably found this very difficult to do. In a strange way it was almost as if he was keeping a secret. For years afterwards, it was difficult for all of us in the family to reach a level of closure regarding my sister. It wasn’t just because my father did not talk about it; it was also because none of us talked about it either.

  Reflecting on my sister’s death helps me understand what my father said about time passing by so quickly. A child’s life in a family does go by very fast. They grow up and they move on. It is important to be there with your child, to be involved and to be responsible, and to enjoy the time together. Keeping your child up to date and expressing in a reasonable way how you are feeling permits communication channels to remain open. This is a very important learning experience for your child, as one day they will grow up and perhaps have a family of their own. They must learn the value of communication with their own children.

  FATHER AS FRIEND

  It was late in the spring, and I was in my final term of grade nine. It had been a very difficult year for me, as I had to adjust to high school while at the same time finally reaching puberty. This was an event I was waiting for, yet feared. I was small in stature and still socially immature. Several of my grade nine classmates and some other teenagers in the high school frequently teased me. I felt quite insecure and unsure of myself, and my grades suffered that first year. It was a major adjustment for me to enter into a large new school and meet so many new people. At the start, I found it difficult to make friends; that, however, would slowly change.

  For several years, my parents rented out a basement suite in our home to university students from out of town. During this particular year in grade nine, a first year student, Mike, was living in the basement. He was nineteen and attending his first year in an engineering degree program. It was his first time away from home, so he looked forward to receiving mail from his parents and girlfriend. In the evenings after supper I would often go downstairs to visit him. Sometimes I did my homework alongside him. We got along very well. He told me he had a younger brother my age, so it was easy for him to participate in activities that he knew I would enjoy. We went to hockey and basketball games together and attended the local sportsmen’s show.

  Mike was indeed like an older brother to me. My father frequently played catch with me and joined me in other activities, but he was much older than most of my friends’ dads. At times it was difficult for him to keep up with my energy level. Mike was able to do this without any trouble.

  April came, and it was the end of the university term for Mike. He finished writing his exams, packed up his car, and prepared to return home until the following September. I remember one evening standing on the hill at the side of the house, saying goodbye to him. As he backed his car out of the driveway, I started to cry. My father, who was working at the side of the house with a neighbour, noticed that I was distraught and came over and hugged me. He sensed the loss that I was experiencing and said, “I�
��ll be your friend.” With those words, I calmed down. Even though I realized that there were some things that Mike and I could do together that my father and I could not, my father was still there for me to turn to.

  After that incident, my father made more attempts to participate in activities with me. Throughout the following summer, we did a great deal together. I spoke to him about how I felt about high school. He listened. By the time I entered grade ten, I felt more confident and better able to relate to my peers.

  It was much easier for my father, given his all-work-and-no-play childhood, to follow the play as opposed to initiating it. However, though it was fun to join in activities with my father, as a child I welcomed someone else who could create other fun with me. Mike was able to teach me things that my father was not all that aware of or couldn’t do, whether it was playing football, attending a magic show, or problem-solving the “new math.”

  Without a doubt, Mike’s leaving was a real loss for me. However, my father’s consistency and friendship remained behind. He had been able to identify my need for friendship with a male other than himself, but he had also realized that once this friend was gone, he as father needed to fill the vacuum.

  The father–child relationship is similar to that of a dance in which each person moves toward, together, away, and independent of each other. It takes time and practice to understand and learn the dance. It can only be achieved by a father’s attempts to understand himself and his history, and how he involves himself with the needs of his child, family, and partner. This dance, a closeness that in time leads to letting go, is at the heart of the friendship that develops between a father and his child.

  PULLING AWAY

  I was seventeen, and it was the summer prior to my first year in university. I had tuition to pay, so I had worked most of that summer in a grocery store. Since I needed as much working time as possible, I signed on for both day and night shifts. Needless to say, I was feeling very tired.

  It was late on one of the night shifts, and I was putting up stock in the soap aisle. The large cases of soap boxes were extremely heavy and difficult to move around. While I was working, I glanced up and noticed a large inflatable cow — part of a display advertising milk — hanging from the ceiling. I thought this was an interesting item, one that would look wonderful hanging up in my room at home, so I decided to remove it.

  It took some creative scheming to figure out how to get at it. I pulled a rather large skid full of soap boxes underneath the cow and gingerly climbed up on top. I removed my case cutter and, leaning over, attempted to cut the string that tied the back of the cow to the ceiling. All of a sudden, the box underneath me gave way, and I lost my balance. I put out my arm to break my fall. A long, spiked pole from a display unit that was mounted on the floor went into the upper part of my arm, and pushed its way inward toward my shoulder. According to the x-rays that I would later receive, the spike just missed my lung. Standing up, somewhat dazed, I pulled it out. Although there was a limited amount of bleeding, it was incredibly painful and obvious that the wound was deep. I immediately went to the front of the store to find the foreman. I asked if someone would drive me to the hospital. The foreman was quite unsympathetic to my plight and since no one was able to leave the shift, it was apparent that I would have to drive myself to emergency. There, they x-rayed my arm, probed it, and felt that nothing had broken off inside; they were satisfied enough to send me home. My arm was put in a sling. By then my shoulder had swelled up, and it was difficult for me even to sit in a comfortable position.

  I left emergency and drove home, arriving several hours earlier than normal. I immediately went to bed in pain and exhaustion. The next morning my mother came into my room somewhat concerned that I had arrived home early. She was startled to see the injury. My shoulder was swollen, and part of my neck was black and blue. My father appeared in the room and was obviously quite concerned. However, he was not able to express his emotions and went to work as usual that morning. Several hours later, my mother also went to work in the family business.

  For the entire day, I stayed home. At one point I did not hear the telephone ring, as I was sleeping. The call was from my father, trying to contact me to see how I was doing. Since I did not answer his call, he became extremely worried. He walked the short distance from work as quickly as he could. He arrived home out of breath, and seeing me, came over and embraced me. He stated that he was very concerned, and since no one had answered the phone, he wondered if something had happened to me. Being the typical teenager that I was, I pulled back from his embrace. I felt uncomfortable.

  After my father spoke with me for a few minutes and felt reassured, he returned to work.

  Even now I feel sad that I did not seize the opportunity to appreciate my father’s concern and to thank him. As a teenager it was natural for me to push him away. It is now easier to understand his sense of caring and the way he expressed it. At that time, it was not.

  When my older sister died several years earlier, she was the same age as I was at the time of this accident. My father had never come to terms with her death, and I believe he was quite anxious about me and my health at that age. To my father, his son was now moving into a new era — I was to turn eighteen soon, an age that my sister did not reach. My father was not sure what the next step was. I can understand now how anxious he must have felt.

  At one time, we felt that it was not manly to express feelings or to demonstrate nurturing feelings. There was an unconscious discouragement of sorts. Now we can say it: fathers have feelings too, and it is okay to show them to others, especially your child. A child wants to be touched and held.

  For me, the ultimate masculine experience is to become a father. And an integral part of being a father is the ability to express how you feel, especially with your child.

  RUNNING THE GOOD RACE

  As I rounded the corner of the track, I looked up. I saw him rise from his seat in the stands and wave his arms. He blocked out the sun like a giant. He was cheering loudly as I ran toward the finish line. This was my graduation year, the last time I would run for my high school track team. I was unfamiliar with steeplechase races, yet I had outrun the entire field. As I burst through the finish line, my father came out onto the track and hugged me, proud of what I had achieved. However, I didn’t win that race. We won it together.

  The race was momentous for me in several ways. Not only was it the last race I would run for my high school, but I was also turning eighteen, coming of age. I was entering adulthood. My father had always stood behind me in all of my endeavours. Over the years, as I was running long-distance races, he was my number one fan.

  That race was the culmination of me and my father working together. A month prior to the event, my high school coach had requested that I enter the newly introduced steeplechase race rather than the two-mile race I had been training for. I had no idea what running a steeplechase race entailed. The coach gave me a training manual that was a number of years out of date and not very helpful. I mentioned all of this to my father, who at the outset said very little. However, unbeknownst to me, he travelled to the next city, located the stadium there, found a steeplechase jump, measured it, came home, and built four of them for me. In order to do this, he tore down a trellis that he had constructed several years earlier at the side of the house. The jumps were measured exactly to size and painted exactly like the ones he had seen in the stadium. This enabled me to train for several weeks with the right type of apparatus and to understand the techniques I needed to perfect.

  This was the unspoken partnership between my father and me: his willingness to quietly support my aspirations and to find a concrete way to help me achieve them. This is what I mean when I say that he was as much the winner of that race as I was.

  My father and I grew into our roles together, a journey we shared throughout my childhood and adolescence. Men don’t become fathers by some magical process of just knowing what to do or by just being there. They become f
athers by being involved. I, as the son, taught the man how to father, and he taught me how to grow up and become a man.

  A man starts the fathering journey in earnest as he enters adulthood. From the time of his partner’s first pregnancy, he has the opportunity to construct for himself a model of involved fathering. When he reaches the stage of eventually becoming a grandfather, he is the elder who provides leadership to the following generations. “Father” is not a noun, it is a verb. “Father” is not something you are, it is something you do. In building those steeplechase jumps for me, he was doing — he was fathering.

  Despite the long hours he worked and his uncertainty as to exactly how he should involve himself in the lives of his children, it slowly dawned on him as he grew into his fathering role that if he could join his children in their play, then he would become a good father. My mother encouraged him in this and supported him in the process.

  This playfulness took many different forms during the years I was growing up, and it provided him with an alternative to simply being a hard worker. Through play, he learned to engage himself in his children’s lives. Everyone saw him as a friendly man who was fun to be with. On occasion, my father would tell my mother that he did not really know how to interact with his children. But when he didn’t think about it, and just let himself be there, that’s all that really mattered. As he grew with me over the years, he became more intuitive in identifying what it was that I needed. By the time of my last year of high school, as I was entering adulthood, he joined me in that transition to manhood. When I crossed the finish line, it was he and I together. I had only made it that far because he had known, as a father, how to meet my needs.

  So many men say they don’t know what to do as fathers. But if they allow themselves to relax and play, and ask themselves, “If I were my son or daughter, what would I want my father to do with me or for me?” they will be surprised at all the possibilities that emerge. Most often, what the child wants, more than anything, is just for dad to be interested in him or her, to be involved with him or her at that moment. Understanding fathering as a process rather than as a fixed state of being makes a difference both to the man and to the child.