Hard to say goodbye

I recently spoke with a man who shared a piece of his childhood with me — a bitter slice. We discussed how the responsibilities of being a parent change as our children grow, but we never outgrow being a parent. And yet, some parents seem to embrace their role as a privilege, others as an afterthought. 

“My dad split the scene when I was two. I don’t have memories of us being a family. I was pretty much alone most of the time. Mom was dealing with things in her own way — unhealthy ways.”

Sitting across from him, I saw a successful man, nicely dressed, confident posture and a steady voice. Yet, hearing him speak, I saw behind his armor and into the eyes of a child.

“Poor. We were poor. And not like those who say it flippantly. My ankles showed from my jeans being too small, rats scurried in the walls, and eating breakfast was a special treat.”

“What was a good memory?” I asked.

“I was good at baseball. Loved the game. Mom would play catch with me. I’ve got to hand it to her; I got better because of her.” He tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. I could tell from the gravid pause that he was revisiting a memory.

“When I was around 8, Dad popped up one day. He went to one of my baseball games. Before the game, he watched Mom and I play catch.”

“Did your dad also throw the ball with you that day?”

“No.”

His one-word answer gave an entire narrative. He went on to say that his dad loved motorcycles, and maybe that is why he was also interested in them. “A weird way to connect to someone I never knew,” he said.

“That day he showed up for my game, he told me that if I hit a home run, he would buy me a dirt bike. God, I wanted a dirt bike so bad. I was nervous about the game. I mean, Dad was there. My dad.”

“Did you hit a home run?” I asked. 

“Sure did. Looked up in the stands and made eye contact with my dad. I was so proud that my dad saw me hit a home run. So excited that I would be getting a dirt bike.”

“That had to have been exciting for you,” I said.

“Would have been, except he left before the game was over. It would be 12 years before I heard from him again.”

“And the bike?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Nah. No bike. No Dad. Just me and Mom… again.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is what it is. Someone told me a few years back that he had died. I pulled up his obit. I wasn’t even mentioned. He had another family, a wife, kids, everything. I didn’t exist.”

He stopped talking and looked into my eyes. His armor had lost its luster. I saw the dents and the pain the blows had inflicted over the years. “Hard to say goodbye to someone you never knew,” he said.

That evening I thought about the conversation with this man. It brought to mind who was most present in my life growing up and who was not. It is interesting that we give so much attention to the moments when someone finally does show up that we can fail to celebrate the steady and consistent ones who never left. 

Two parents were sitting in the stands the night he hit the home run, yet, he only made eye contact with his dad. Did he see his mom clapping, cheering, smiling? Did he realize she played catch with him after her life imploded? After his dad left them to start a new family. He was just a boy, so I doubt he fully understood — he knew his normal, but probably did not realize that this “normal” was never his mom’s plan for either of their lives.

I am guilty of this as well. I am thankful for those who have and continue to contribute to my life. I have learned from both the positive and negative participators, and each, in their way, has taught me. Looking back, however, there have been times that I have overly celebrated when someone has shown up rather than honored the ones who never left.

Who in your life has been your biggest cheerleader? The attentive ear? The one who remained even when you were being petulant? Who has taken you just as you are and spoken love and life into your ages and stages? And who perhaps does not get enough credit for being a steady presence in a world turned upside down?

Thank these people.

For some, these cherished souls have already departed this earth. These are our hardest goodbyes: the ones who make us realize how deeply and genuinely we were loved. Yet, we know their presence never truly leaves; their love carries us forward even if we no longer hear their cheers or see their smile. What a complex gift to be loved so purely that saying goodbye hurts so profoundly.

I close this article with three words: Thank you, Mom.

Who comes to mind in your life to thank?