I learned the lesson I needed to:
People get out of relationships what they put into them.
By Duane Lesperance
Last summer marked the tenth anniversary of my father’s death and the first time I’ve ever visited his grave. The youngest of his four children, I’m the only one who has ever bothered to make the trip to Calgary to see it, even though I live the farthest away. No my father was not sexually or physically abusive to any of us, nor was he ever violent towards my mother. My father left our family when I was six-years-old, preferring a life of easy, short-term relationships over complicated, if less exciting, day-to-day family living. I met my father again for the first time when I was fifteen years old; the summer I was visiting my grandparents and found out that he lived in the same town as them (The Pas, Manitoba). I was excited to meet him again, calling him “dad” with a self-conscious discomfort; surprised to find out how old he looked, how small he was. It would be another three years before I would see him again, occasionally visiting him off and on for several years after that. I always found it weird that my father spoke to me in third person. “Well, you know your father, he always…” He spoke of my mother being cool and difficult, a description that completely contradicted my own experiences of her. But he didn’t want to hear that, so eager was he to convince me of the legitimacy of his walking away from his children. One day my sister called me and told me of his death. I was shocked and felt cheated out of the relationship we could have had (not cheated out of the relationship we did have). I felt betrayed that he knew he was dying for a year, but never called any of his children. Despite this, I decided to go to Calgary for his funeral. At first, I was the only one of his children who was going to make the trip. My brother agreed to attend to support me, followed by my sister, who wanted to be there for us. My mother then said she would go with my sister, followed shortly by my older brother, who was going to be there for my mother. Last spring, I began to consider going to Calgary to visit his grave. I had just moved and found his obituary in a box I was packing. I realized it would be ten years since his death and I never been to see his grave. I contacted my siblings to see if they were interested in coming to Calgary with me, but none were. On the solo drive across the Prairies, I had the time and solitude to think about my father’s decision to leave our family. I wondered if he ever thought about or realized how much it hurt his children that he left behind and how that legacy was something we all struggle with. I wonder if he ever recognized the closeness we had from having to band together to get through our pain, and how he had been excluded from this. I wondered what it was like for him to die alone, never having made amends for the pain he caused. It was over 32 degrees in Calgary the day I found the cemetery he is buried in. I sat in the shade for over half an hour before strolling over to where his ashes lie, readying myself, though not exactly sure for what. I walked up and down the rows in the section they had directed me towards. I re-walked the rows a second time, a third time. I couldn’t find it. It was hot and I was feeling frustrated, cheated. Suddenly, I cracked a smile. Of course, it had to be this way. Literally, there was nothing here for me. For many years, I had imagined what my father was like: heroic, admirable, but I was always to be disappointed. I had tried to forge an honest and open adult relationship with him only to be disappointed. Here I was (somewhere) near his grave, unable to reach him, find him, again disappointed. For the first time in my life, I learned the lesson I needed to from my father: people get out of relationships what they put into them. My father put very little into ours; we were left with very little. Later that day, I felt compelled to go to the Calgary zoo. I spent the day strolling around in the heat. It was inexplicably comforting, something I would only understand later when discussing my trip to my father’s grave with my mother. She smiled as she recalled how she used to take us to the zoo back in the days when it was free because we all loved it there and it was inexpensive activity for a mother of four and her children. She remembered how the five of us used to go and have picnics and stay all day for days in a row. Indeed, once again I realized the truth: people get out of relationships what they put into them. The day I had visited my father’s grave for the first, and probably last, time, I realized I learned more about my family life from my father’s absence than he was able to teach me with his presence. He gave me a painful but valuable gift, one I hope I one day teach my own children, although more gently.
