Last Visit With Dad

April 4, 2014

This month marked the 12th anniversary of the death of my Dad.  William M. Burroway died in April 2002 of throat and lung cancer.

Tonight I was reminded of some memories and I was shaken to my core when some of those emotions came flooding back.  Dad was abusive – emotionally and physically.  He was an alcoholic who never found his way to sobriety.  He was a sick man in so many ways.

Four months prior to his death, I went to visit him in the hospital.  It had been 23 and ½ years since I spoke to my dad.  The last words my dad said to me when I saw him at 16 years old rung in my mind over and over for all of those years.  As bad as that was, it drove me to succeed – to prove him wrong.  He said that day, “What are you going to do when you graduate high school?”  I said, “I’m going to college.”  He replied, “You’ll never succeed.  You’re nothing but a little faggot.”  When I left that day, I said to him, “The next time I see you will be at your funeral and the ONLY reason why I’m even going to be there is so I can check your pulse and make sure you’re dead you son-of-a-bitch.”  Turns out, it wasn't the only reason why I went to his funeral.  Read on…

The impetus for my visit that December night in 2001 was a phrase that someone I knew back then said one evening.  Liz said, “Hurt people hurt people.”  Sadly, Liz since took her own life and thus went to her grave never knowing how her saying those words that night would change my whole life.  You see, throughout all of my teenage and adult years, I carried around an image of my dad as an ogre – someone who had and who could still hurt me; someone who was bigger and more powerful than me.  Liz’s words made me stop and think that maybe my dad didn't have it so well with his own drinking parents.  For the first time in my life, I felt I might be able to find forgiveness.

A very dear friend of mine offered to go with me that night over to Montefiore Hospital.  Dennis didn't go into my dad’s room, but waited for me downstairs.  I will always be grateful for Dennis being part of that night.

 I was terrified, but when I walked into his room, my dad was clearly surprised.  Oxygen tubes in his nose and a tracheotomy in his neck, he said, “Of all my kids, you are the one I never expected to come and you are the only one that did come.”  I said, “I’m not here for you, I’m here for me.”  Beyond that, we made small talk about how my mom, brothers and sisters were – he was very interested in how my sisters’ lives turned out.  He was interested in how my life progressed.  Oddly enough, I found myself, after everything, still seeking my dad’s approval.  The words were not spoken, but I could see in his eyes, he was proud of me; he was truly happy that I came.  In hindsight, I hope I gave him a little peace that night – only a few months before he died. 

It was that night that I learned that my dad had 22 children.  That’s what he said.  I chuckled and stated that I thought it was only 18. 

After about 40 minutes, things fell silent – we were out of things to say- so I said that I had to go.  Dad stood up and reached to hug me.  Upon doing so, his pajama bottoms fell from his thin, frail body to the floor.  I hugged his 70 pound body and felt his shoulder bones in my hands.  I turned away so he wouldn't see the tears.  It was at that moment that the image of the overbearing ogre that I carried in my head all those years was replaced by an image of a frail, pathetic, small man that could no longer hurt me (or anyone else).  I realized that I could love this man – not necessarily as my father, but as another human being; one suffering from the disease of addiction; one who was going to die a sad, lonely and pathetic death after living a life of the same.  The seed of forgiveness was planted.

It was a few days before I actually felt the impact of that experience.  I learned what true forgiveness felt like and how it really was about me letting go.  A huge burden was lifted from me and my life was forever changed.  No more did I walk around with the constant feeling that the other shoe was going to drop.  No more was I terrified of letting people know me.  So many fears disappeared that week.

My family was concerned that I saw my dad that night and that I went to his funeral.  But, the fact is, I could forgive my dad.  I didn't mean that I condoned his behavior for even a second.  It only meant that I could let go of the past – of something that I couldn't change.