Absolution and the importance of performing surgery on yourself.

Every time I pull into my parent's driveway, dropping at least one of my kids off, I'd remember how I've been remiss in finding replacements for the two thirty year old heating and air units that came with their house. They've stopped turning on the AC in fear of the inevitable. Whenever I go in their house, I'm greeted by gusts of air from fans and portable air conditioners stationed in every corner of their rooms. As my hair's blown in every direction, my excuses for inaction seemed pretty lame.

Lately, I noticed my dad would stand silently by while I'd hand Shelby off to my mom and chat with her about my 14 month old. He's been so vocal in the past, telling me about his doctor's concerns, his concerns and general concerns of the universe brought about by his latest test results. Then he'd ask if I'd go with him to his oncologist/radiologist/urologist. And I'd go with him. Our car rides filled with silence which would carry over to the waiting room, then exam room, only to be broken by the entrance of the doctor. I can trust in his strong sense of self preservation to let me know what I needed to know and when he needed my help. But this silence is new.

The other day, when I was picking Shelby up, already happy with the thought of seeing my pretty baby at the end of a long day, my dad came up to me, put his cheek against my cheek, and hugged me.

That wouldn't be a big deal usually, except that I can't remember when the last time my dad hugged me. I distinctly remember the first time my dad refused to hug me. It was the spring quarter of my sophomore year in college. He disapproved of my lifestyle. And he suspected I was no longer a virgin. I went to greet my parents after they made the 4 hour long car ride from Cincinnati to Chicago. I hugged my mom. And when I went to hug my dad, his arms hung limply by his sides. At that moment, I learned that love could be conditional.

Since then, every time I tried to hug him, at my college graduation, leaving for Taiwan, returning from Taiwan a year later, leaving for law school 2000 miles away, graduating from law school, passing the bar, leaving for Las Vegas, my first wedding, my second wedding, the birth of my first child, second child, third child, his arms remained by his sides, leaving me humiliated in my unreciprocated embrace, feeling the curious eyes of others around us.

So the simple act of embrace that took place by my parents' front door, was an absolution, for becoming Americanized, for my divorce, for the old house that they live in, for the old car that they're driving, for not making more money, for not giving them more money, for not being there enough during his illness.

I know his expectations are unreasonable. That knowledge comes about with age. But I do cherish his desire to forgive. And the gift that it is. Because not every thing about a parent's love for a child is reasonable. Our self perception is so tied up within the love that we feel for our children. The secret is to separate it. It's similar to performing surgery on yourself. And about as easy.  Sunday, August 16, 2009 at 11:54am