Why does it take me nagging the home warranty company and three plumbers to figure out that when the bathtub is draining slowly you have to snake the main (whatever that is), not just the tub? And why does the third plumber act like I should have known that? Why does the salesperson who charged me $18,000 for a new heat and air “system” act like I am cheating him when I insist that new grates over the vents in each room are part of the “system” and should have been included in the work? Had someone else not pointed out the grates I would not have known they existed much less advocated for them in time to avoid buying them myself later.
My dad knew how to do almost everything around the house. When I was a girl, he spent Saturdays working in the garage and around the house. He helped build our home in Albuquerque. He made some of the furniture. He knew how to work on cars, but I never saw him do that since he could afford mechanics by the time I was paying attention. He learned all that by being around men who did those things or the sons of men who taught their sons how to do things. Unfortunately, he was not a dad who taught his sons how to do things. Despite all the mentoring he received as a boy, he did not seem to understand that it was his responsibility to mentor his children into adulthood. He expected us to know what he knew, but never took the time to teach us what he knew. While my brothers acquired great skills over the years, they were left to figure things out on their own.
Butch’s dad was very much the same. He seemed to know how to fix anything, including some amazing improvisation. Butch inherited a collection of homemade tools and contraptions that are fascinating. His father never engaged with him as a child, but Butch has memories of working on car projects with him. Butch had a car early and worked on it all the time, so he was a great mechanic. Nothing frustrated him more than taking computer based cars to the shop and paying exorbitant prices for inadequate work he could have done better himself before computers made that impossible. The best way to describe his father’s disengagement in household repairs is to relate a story he told about his parents. His father had taken up paint-by-number as a spare-time hobby. He worked tons of hours, often out of town, and usually came home at night to the TV, a six-pack, and an early bedtime. Weekends he worked on the cars if necessary, but wasn’t known to jump in there and work on the house until it was completely unavoidable. Frustrated by his oblivion to her multiple request for him to paint the interior of the house, Butch’s mom painted large numbers all over the walls of the living room and declared that if he was so excited about paint-by-number, maybe that would inspire him to her project.
Much of our time in the first round of marriage counseling was spent resolving the disconnect between my expectation that Butch would know and do everything my father had, and Butch’s shame and procrastination related to not knowing how to do any of it. Between the dyslexia and the ADHD, he was the living personification of the phrase “measure twice, cut once”. He struggled with cutting things backwards and misreading the directions (on those desperate occasions when he read the directions). Over the years, I watched him battle through one project after another, figuring things out on his own, that others had learned from their dads. He felt so ashamed of not knowing what no one ever taught him, that he found it almost impossible to ask for help. He just kept plugging away. He was progressively given opportunities to work beside a contractor on a remodel, his best friend on the build-from-scratch of a beautiful kayak, and an eventual project sharing relationship with my brother, John, that enabled him to feel confident whenever something needed his attention at home. Too bad YouTube wasn’t around back in those days.
The most prevalent thing I felt after his death was fear. He was the wind beneath my wings in every sense of the word. He fixed everything and kept the cars in working order. More importantly, he plugged the holes in my heart. His belief in me enabled me to move forward when I was more likely destined to run in circles or fall backwards based on my background. Even things that were more my area of expertise made more sense when I had him to listen as I figured things out. I can’t tell you how many times since his death I have reached for the phone to share something with him or ask him for ideas only to remember that he isn’t there anymore. I thanked him all the time for being amazing and for loving me like that. That is one of the things I wish I could tell him one more time to be sure he knew.
Those years of accumulated wisdom died with him. Houses are always in need of repairs. Cars always break down. I know less at about all of this at 65 than he did at 20. I understand that no one expects me to know all this stuff. Even if I did, no one would begrudge me playing the “old lady” card and getting help. Those logical pieces of information mean nothing when something happens. Any childhood issues left unresolved are invited to the forefront immediately.
Every time I have to do something simply because Butch is gone, it reopens the wound. If it is something I know how to do or can easily figure out, its just sad. I don’t like asking for help. I would prefer to be omnipotent and all powerful, thank you very much. I don’t like admitting how lazily I was able to saunter through life, sheltered in his care. So, when I need help, shame, regret, and fear mix with the sadness. I have progressed over time so that the initial volley into his world goes much better now. The biggest problem with asking for help is that people seem to assume you know stuff and only need clarification. I don’t know enough to ask the right questions, so there is inevitably a black hole waiting around the corner. Thus, the help is often not that helpful. When I then learn enough to realize things have gone badly and attempt to hold people accountable for not doing what they said they would do, or not giving me enough information to make the correct decision in the first place, I can’t keep acting like a grownup to the end of the project. While I don’t descend to the level of screeching like a banshee, I can fully imagine how gratifying it might be. I use all those communication skills I teach people in my office every day and assertively forge on, negotiating to resolve the problem. Unfortunately, however, I am usually crying uncontrollably at the same time. Needless to say, this shifts the dynamic, leaves me feeling even worse than I did going in, and behaving like a babbling nincompoop.
Becoming us without them is so much more complicated than just getting over the pain. That illusive “them” turns out to be so much more than we understand when the loss occurs. Even if there has been a lingering health issue that affords time for preparation and some handing-off of information, it is impossible to anticipate everything. Simple projects are “merely” reminders of their absence. Complicated projects are reminders of the ways in which they were woven into the fabric of our lives over the years. It can literally feel as if we are unraveling as each of those fibers is torn from us one by one. The gaping holes in “us” can feel like a black hole, drawing us into the abyss. Our grieving mentors teach us that it is critical that we weave in new strands of support, both practical and emotional, at the first possible opportunity and never stop seeking them. Those mentors are the brightest and most enduring strands in the tapestry we are creating. Their support prevents us from coming unraveled. Nothing can make it go faster or hurt less. But those ahead of us on the path hold the light of their lives to guide us along. One day the sun will rise, and we will discover that a beautiful new design has been woven into our lives. The “us” we have become will include the treasured parts of “them” reinforced by the new fibers we have been slowly weaving without them. Then we will become those mentors guiding the way for those who follow.
For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.