What I've Carried...

...in my 46-year relationship with my dad

Last week my sister and I met with our dad’s medical team, a meeting we’d been trying to get for months. He’s lucky to have been swept up by the net of the state of Hawaii’s elderly care system a few years ago when he was discharged from the mental health ward in Hilo following a 5150. In true charismatic Perry Conner fashion, he somehow talked the staff at the hospital into letting him out before the mandatory 72-hour hold expired, and his hospitalization led him to Kamana Elderly Housing, where he pays just $170 a month for a one-bedroom apartment, and to Ian, Christine and Masai, the three angels who act as his adult mental health counselor, addiction counselor, and nurse, all provided free of charge by the State.

They told us that in the past two weeks he’d been pulled over twice and cited for not wearing a seat belt, and more importantly, for not having his beat up old Toyota Rav 4 registered or insured. The same Rav 4 that, when I visited him in May after his phone and wallet were allegedly “stolen” in Walmart, leaving him without the ability to communicate or pay for anything, was teeming with old McDonald’s wrappers, empty milk shake and orange juice cups and cockroaches relishing in their remnants.

We also found out that last week, he had three 9-1-1 calls and two visits to the emergency room. Twice he called on himself when he couldn’t get out of bed due to dizziness, nausea and vomiting, likely caused by being drunk off green bottles, or from his extremely high blood pressure, or both. One call was made by his neighbor, a Hawaiian woman who had picked him up off the ground after he had fallen and been stuck lying there for three hours. He refused ambulance transport that third time, citing that he was tired of the E.R.

“We’re definitely seeing a sharp decline,” reported Ian, “But he’s still not bad enough to qualify for home care. We’ll have to wait for something drastic to happen like a bone break or stroke, if we want to get him next-level care.”

THIS is our broken system.

I got off the call and reported the news to my husband.

“Wow. That’s a lot, Kai. Are you okay?” he responded.

“Yeah.” I answered. And over the course of the next couple of days, each time I told the story to friends and family members they all seemed more concerned for me than I was feeling.

Legendary Notre Dame football coach Lou Holtz said, “It's not the load that breaks you down, it's the way you carry it."

It’s fitting to quote a football coach here. My dad played football on scholarship at UC Berkeley after his track scholarship at Stanford was revoked when he got my sister’s mom pregnant the summer before his freshman year. I don’t need to tell you much more about my golden boy, prodigal son, captain of the debate team, homecoming king, valedictorian, quarterback, track star dad than that for you to get the picture.

A few months ago, my dad’s navy captain father, my Gramps, came through in a session with my medium friend. “There’s a grandfather figure here,” she told me, “He’s saluting next to the ocean.” He wanted her to tell me how sorry he was for breaking my dad, cracking him under pressure, leading to a lifetime of addiction and mental health struggles.

There’s a disconnect, I know, and I think it may have to do with all I’ve carried in my 46 year relationship with my father. I love him, and I have empathy for him, and I’ll go back to Hilo in a month or two to help him again. And again. And again. I’ll go help and I’ll shower him with love until he goes, until I get that last phone call and fly to the Big Island to walk him home.

But this newfound “disconnect?” I think it might be a healthy thing because I have finally realized this: the load my dad carries is not mine to bear.

I’ve found that when I subtly shift to the next level of emotional health, it takes some time to get used to a new me, a new way. Maybe this new way involves a shift towards carrying myself.

I’ve carried a lot in our 46-year relationship. I’ve carried abandonment, sadness, and rage. I’ve carried how, when and why. I’ve carried fear, anger, and grief. I’ve carried compassion, forgiveness, and love.

I’ve carried his trauma and his parents trauma and their parents trauma before that.

I’ve carried it all and I’ve worked my whole life to heal it. For myself, for my daughters, for all my ancestors. I have walked through the fire and let it all go.

I’ve looked into my dad’s crying, pleading, bright blue eyes and whispered, “I love you. I forgive you,” and I’ve put down the load.