It Is All Connected

Connection #2

I just got off the phone with my dad. We hadn’t spoken in nearly three weeks, I was just getting up for the day to begin writing this exact post about our letters, and there he was, calling me just after 6am. I was literally picking up my iPad to begin writing when the phone rang. Given how sporadically we talk, his timing was too uncanny to not notice the connection. A moment of pause and a shot of connection with him on the day I’m writing about it? This was the second time his timing had been perfect. Thank you, Universe.

Backing up to the end of November, 2020

A series of phone calls and shorter emails led me to write a longer email/letter to my dad. I felt that there was an invitation to share, a generous ear to listen, and that the time was right for me to finally open up and feel validated. We were both in a place to have a productive connection, free from drama, the “learning conversations” I mentioned yesterday.

So, I wrote. For six days I lived inside this letter, crafting it carefully to be sure I was focusing on getting it right, not trying to be right, giving it just the right color, tender tenor, and nuance that would accurately represent my feelings. Given how many years it had been since we had had an exchange like this (never like this), I wanted to be sure to express fully but not have it land so heavily that it caused damage.

Get it right, don’t BE right.

I sat on these thoughts and other poignant quotes:

The act of writing was liberating and enlightening. The learning, the connections, the new understanding. I leaned into my tools – gratitude, books and learning, mindset, Pause, Reframe, Savor, perspective, and courage. One might argue that I didn’t even need to send it, that the act of writing it was enough, but it needed to be received in order for me to be heard and validated. He didn’t need to agree with or accept anything I said, in fact the reception was entirely his to control, but it needed to be delivered in order to move to the next steps. I’m grateful that I was brave enough to write it all and I’m grateful that he had the courage to go there with me.

I sent it.

There was no reply.

Was it too much? Did he not care? We are slow communicators so I gave space and time, but I was hoping for a reply.

Connection #1

On 1/22/2021, I had my most recent surgery, #11, the pubic joint fusion. It was supposed to be the last, the one to create closure for all of the preceding surgeries, to finally make me whole – my final piece of physical healing. This was a really big one and I ended up spending the night in the hospital.

As soon as I was in my room that evening and able to see halfway decently enough to look at my phone, I opened my email and there was a reply from my dad. Seven weeks after I sent my letter. I hadn’t even told him I was having surgery that day, so of all days to reply after all these weeks, holy cow, this has to all be connected!

A huge step forward for BOTH the physical and mental/emotional recovery on the same day? Undeniably connected.

He had taken his time to absorb what I had written and then drafted, redrafted, and redrafted his reply some more, hoping to get his right, too. Again, I sat with my reply to his reply for a few days to be sure I was also getting it right, which after going round and round a bit ultimately said something to the effect of “we are missing each others’ intended messages, no matter how carefully we craft our words. Let’s move these conversations to in-person or at least phone calls.” He agreed and we stopped writing.

The written word is tricky! Especially in the realm of sharing emotions, and even more so for two of us that don’t write much. 

Conversations With Dad

So, we stopped writing and began what I dubbed Conversations With Dad. Typically early morning before anyone else was up and tugging at my leg, we had real, meaningful phone calls. Not too often, maybe every week or two.

We touched on topics we had both tried to write about. I learned things about him I wouldn’t otherwise know and how that fit into our family dynamics, and he learned things about me that he didn’t know that changed his perspectives. Slowly, we started to unravel history and share more. We were like two newborn deer, awkwardly trying to stand and walk. It was wonderful and interesting and healing!

But, he is only one half of “my parents”. What about mom?

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