Letters for My Father
Letters for My Father
Introduction for the Reader
But this book is not about my father or his accomplishments. This book is about our relationship and my grieving process after he died. Grieving is highly personal. As a psychologist, I have worked with many people struggling with grief. People grieve in different ways. This book is not intended as a manual or to tell people how to grieve. Rather, the purpose is to model aspects of grieving illuminated through my process.
Grieving and Self-Reflection
Death is one of the great illuminators, often compelling us to self-reflection. When others die, it inevitably prompts reflection on our own mortality and aspects of our life. Some people feel guilty engaging in this aspect of grieving and stringently avoid it. However, it is one of the joys and benefits of suffering. I hope that those who grieve me some day will use that opportunity to reflect on their own life. Death is something that unites every one of us. No matter our age, at some point in the future we will return to dust.
The Process of Writing Letters for My Father
Had I known that my grieving would take the path it did, it would not have been as effective.
Primary Symbols
Indeed, it is never too early to live connected with the vibrancy only death can bring. This is one of the great gifts of grieving and facing death directly.
The Organization of this Book
Following the letters, there is a chapter written by Olivia Michael and Edbury Enegren on "Lessons from Grieving for My Father." When the letters evolved into a book, their purpose expanded, even if the words written remained the same. Now there was a hope that these letters could be of some benefit to others. At times, it felt audacious to think that my grieving could benefit others. Yet, this is the hope, and without it there is no reason to publish the letters as a book.
When I began thinking about identifying the lessons in these letters, I encountered strong resistance. While I mention some potential lessons in this Introduction, to compile lessons myself felt inauthentic. Although the letters were informed by wisdom gained from my previous experiences with grieving, reading about grieving, and working with grieving clients, the letters were not written with lessons or modeling grief in mind. It quickly became apparent that if this chapter was included, it could not be written by me.
The final chapter needed fresh eyes. But it was also necessary to be written by individuals who could be trusted with the vulnerability of the content. Olivia and Edbury have been my students and supervisees and with whom I have been deeply impressed. In the end, they were two people whom I trusted to have the openness, insight, and wisdom to approach this content in a manner that can illuminate lessons for others.
Part 1: Chasing Monsters
Letter 1: Chasing the Monsters Away
Starting in November, you often became angry in the evenings. The anger was generally directed at Mom. I know you did not mean it, but it could be quite hurtful. This was part of the disease, but I am also convinced this is partially from a life of forced optimism. You did not deal with the negative and were good at repressing it, but as your memory failed so did your defenses and coping mechanisms. All that was repressed began breaking through on those long winter evenings, and Mom was generally the recipient. It really hurt her.
Letter 2: The Brown Chair
Nights you were home, I often would cautiously sneak into your bedroom at night, tap your side, and say, "Dad, I'm scared." You would get up, come into my bedroom and sit in the brown desk chair. It was not a comfortable chair with no back support, poor cushioning, and no arm rests. Yet, you would sit there until I went to sleep, no matter how long it took. At the time, I did not think about how uncomfortable you must have been or the consequences of sleep lost; I was just relieved you were there—chasing the monsters away.
Brown Chair
for my father
Smooth leather
Buttoned down and
Curved in all the wrong places
That old brown chair
Stayed at my bedroom desk
Rarely used for homework
Or drawingYet each night
If the fear came upon me
I would timidly come into your room
And beckon you to allay the fears
You sat patiently
Occupying that lonely brown chair
That was not built for comfort
If you got up before
My eyes stayed closed
I called out
And you stayedEach night
You stayed
Such a seemingly simple
Act of love
Staying
Being present
Yet not 'til my own young son
Timidly came to my bedside
"Papa"
Did I recognize this sacrifice
This act of love
Frustrated and awakened
I remember being held in your love
And I say
"I'm right here, you are safe now."And I know
Your love has become
My love
Letter 3: Facing Grief Directly
Facing grief directly helped me move through some of the more difficult aspects of grief more quickly. But this is not the primary reason why I do it. It is because it helps me savor and preserve the meaning of the relationship and lessons learned from it.
When my first marriage ended, this helped me learn about myself, the regrets and mistakes that I made, and move forward more constructively. It also helped me move to a place where I could appreciate the relationship, even if knowing it was not a healthy relationship for either of us. Our paths were going in different directions, and, in retrospect, I take responsibility and the guilt that comes with it for not recognizing our divergent paths before our vows. Grieving restored me to a place where I could care for, even love, the other person.
Seeing your pride was meaningful.
Although I consciously tried to say what needed to be said before you died, there remained much to say. Some of this was things that I could not say because I knew you could not hear them, at least after the cognitive decline and dementia settled in. But there were also things that I did not know I needed to say until I began writing.
Letter 4: I Will Be Grieving the Rest of My Life
"The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal."
Part 2: Our love
Letter 5: A Final Smile
We checked into a hotel, and I told my family I wanted to be on the road by 8:00 AM the next morning, emphasizing the importance of leaving on time. Dr. Luft told us that the chemotherapy and antibiotics had been stopped. This meant that your coherence would begin fading. It kept circling in my mind that I had to get there while there was still coherence. We had to be on time. So, we drove on.
This was a different type of existential time and being late was not an option.
As we neared the hospital, I told my family to drop me off and then head to your house to unpack. I needed to be there as quickly as possible. And I wanted to know what I needed to prepare my sons for when they arrived.
One word, my name, combined with that smile was what I needed for closure. Anything more was a bonus.
After that, your coherence faded quickly. Within minutes, words became more difficult. There were few sentences after that moment. Mostly, it was just single words or gestures.But I knew that I arrived in time to feel your love one more time. And maybe it was the deepest I have ever felt it.
Letter 7: Presence
Maybe now that you are gone, I will feel your presence more often.
Since your death, the emotions have come back more prominently. I feel more myself, more of the person that I want to be. I am still not where I want to be but am getting there. There is some impatience yet, including with my listening, that I want to focus on. Losing you and writing these letters has started a process of reclaiming who I want to be.
Letter 8: A View
There is a deeper symbolism for both of us in the view. Part of me is drawn to explore it; however, a larger part wants to just appreciate the simplicity of this connection. I do not want to risk ruining it through discovering that we were drawn to having a view for different reasons. Although I generally enjoy seeking the depths even when they seem dark and scary, it feels like there is some wisdom in just letting this one be and observing it.
Letter 9: Genuineness and Depth
There is a rawness of being that consumes me.
Letter 11: Music, Touch, and the Symbols of Love and Grieving
In ways, these letters have been preserving these parts of myself connected to you. If I can preserve you in me through grief, then grief has a meaning and purpose that transforms the suffering of your loss.
At death, when other forms of comfort lose their power, touch remains.
Love, to be authentic, must be lived, not just spoken. Without action, love does not reach its potential and arguably does not really exist. It must be deciphered through the symbols of love. Ideally, living love comes together with words spoken so congruently and powerfully that the love cannot be doubted.
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Part 3: Grieving Imperfections
Letter 12: "I Don't Want to be High Maintenance"
While I was away for supper the night before you died, you told Mom and the family who was there, "I don't want to be high maintenance." I think this was your second-to-last sentence. You were serious, but it also provided some needed humor. There was comfort in this, too. We had been watching you fade away for a few years, more significantly in the last six months. But these words were very much you. We were saying goodbye to you, not just a fading shadow of you.
Letter 13: A Good Enough Father
Yet, as Rollo May discussed, it is often the lessons that we cannot fully comprehend that are the deepest lessons. If we understand them too readily, we check them off and do not think about them. When we must wrestle with the ideas, they become deeper, more personal, and real. This is why I have long preferred the unclear lessons, the ones that do not answer all the questions or quell all the anxieties. These are the best lessons!
Letter 14: Imperfections, Part 1
It was hard to let you be imperfect. You hid many of your imperfections when I was growing up. With it, you hid much of yourself. When you became imperfect, I started to recognize that I did not really know you. And that hurt. Growing up, I often longed for intimacy. I was lonely as a child and wanted connection. I had friends, but there was not much depth. Even with early girlfriends I hid myself, not knowing how to be more vulnerable. You were perfect to me, and if you remained hidden then it seemed I ought to as well. So, I remained hidden and alone, longing for connection.
Yet, there is part of me that wishes I could have discovered this without all the pain. The existentialist in me knows, however, that without the pain it would not have been as authentic of a lesson.
Letter 16: Privilege and Growth
COVID robbed us of the ability to build from that weekend. I am still saddened, even bitter, by what COVID took from us. It is grief of possibilities that could never come to fruition. The weekend provided hope that still lives in me. Hope can still be meaningful even if it is not completed.
Letter 17: Your Insecurities
In the many conversations I had after you died, people referred to you as humble. That was not the full story. Your humility should not be reduced to insecurities; humility was also a deeply held value of yours. As is typical, the attitudes and behaviors others experienced as humility were empowered by insecurities. Behaviors and the people we become are overdetermined, meaning there are various factors that influence our behaviors and who we are becoming.
Much like me, your father was a huge presence in your life. Even after he died, he remained present as an influence. I know that you, too, will remain a presence for me. I welcome that. But I also want to be aware of the various ways that could influence me. They are not all positive.
Letter 18: Success
However, our pursuits have been very different, and it has led to me often feeling that you did not recognize, or maybe value, my successes. This is not all on you. You have told me how proud you are of me often. You purchased copies of my books, and you have given copies of my poetry books to many people. I know you are proud, but I often did not feel it.
Our differences often left me feeling unseen by you. What you were proud of was not the accomplishments that gave me the most meaning.
In ways, I appreciate that you never told me directly that you disapproved.
I wish your approval had not been so important to me—that I could have recognized it as just individual differences and that was okay. But it would not be truthful to say this. After COVID, when your cognitive decline was more evident, I tried to focus on the ways you were proud of me. These could be readily felt and seen, even if not the holistic pride I desired.
Letter 19: The Weight of Your Optimism
Your optimism was revered by many, as we heard over and over at the funeral. But, Dad, your optimism sometimes hurt, too. This optimism was part of why you could never really see me.
For you, it was never going to be that bad. Even as you neared death, you would say, "I'm blessed" and "We're blessed." There is a truth in this concurrent with a self-deception. There were so many blessings, but you used this to cover over the pain and suffering. They did not go away when you did this; they just remained hidden. Without acknowledging the problem, it is too easy to fall prey to complicity. And too often I felt that you did this. There were only some problems that you could see, but even these you could not see for too long.
This self-deception was part of the distance between us. I am someone who craves genuineness and facing the world and its realities directly. This was too much for you. Sometimes when I needed to be seen and heard, you had to back away, bowing to the protections that optimism and privilege could afford.
You feared the dark, forcing the light to enter while typically I am able to sit in the dark, patiently awaiting an authentic, sustainable light to begin to emerge. You could not see me when I was sitting in the dark and did not want to look for me.
Part 4: Your Love
Letter 22: "There's My Pretty Girl"
"There's my pretty girl."
I had witnessed your testimonies of love of many times. I had no doubt of the depth of your love and commitment to Mom. But as much as I yearned for that last smile and relished hearing my name, I wanted this for Mom even more. As I heard her talk of this, it was some of the clearest moments of joy that broke up her grief.
Letter 23: Standing by Mom
Never before was I as certain of your love for Mom as while she was in the hospital.
To witness your love was meaningful. As someone who feels love deeply, I did not always see the depth of your love for Mom. I recognized that you were not always present, and she sometimes struggled with how much you were away. This made it more meaningful to see your commitment during this time. It was a witness that I wanted to take in so that I could live such a love as well.
Letter 24: A Letter to My Mother
When you were sick and in a coma for a couple of weeks, I remember vividly and viscerally several times where I had the urge to call you, then broke down crying realizing that I could not.
Letter 25: Mentoring
Now, as a mid-career psychologist, I find myself in roles often associated with mentoring. As a teacher and supervisor, I often think of the Nietzsche quote, "One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil."1 While this could be interpreted in various ways, the meaning for me is that a student must become their own person, not merely a reflection of their mentor. Divergence does not dishonor the mentor but rather is a reflection that the mentor has done their job well. The other side of the Nietzsche quote is that if a teacher pressures a student to remain their student or protege, they dishonor their student.
My approach to being a teacher, mentor, and father has surely been influenced by you—even more than I know. Through these roles there is a continued sense of connection with you. For that, I am thankful. Even more, I am blessed.
Letter 30: Listening
As a therapist, I listen differently than you did. Many clients have told me something along the lines of "You stare a lot." I generally laugh and agree. I do. I often stare when people talk to me. My listening can be intense as I seek to take in all that I possibly can. It is easy for me to lose track of how intense this can be.
When with friends and family, I often listen better by assuming a posture like yours, where I am often looking off somewhat to the side, but intently listening. When clients read something, I listen better this way. I think about these different listening patterns and stances often, pondering what they mean and how they impact the people I am with.
Now that you're gone, I am still attending to your listening and still learning from it. And I am still trying to listen to you.
Letter 31: Devlun
Devlun, I hope that you will always carry with you the memory that my father, Clarence Hoffman, was very proud of you. He continued to speak of you through the last weeks of his life when many others of whom he often spoke were no longer prominent in his memory. This was a testament to how much you and your story meant to him.
Letter 32: A Letter to My Sons
There is a lesson that I hope you someday learn: the death of your father can break you, and with that it prompts reflections and lessons about yourself as a person and as a father. It is not that I want you to hurt or be broken. Rather, I hope that I was a worthy enough a father to be broken over. If I was a good enough father, my death someday will hurt and may even temporarily break you. That's the deal.
There is so much to love being in this world[…]
I have not lived up to the standards I set for myself as a father. My hope is that maybe, like my father, I have been and will be a good enough father. In this, maybe I have sufficiently offered you the freedom to recognize and be honest about my limitations and failures. They were not failures of love, but they were my failures.
But Grandpa struggled. Oh, he loved you so much. But maybe he loved you so much that it prevented him from seeing the world as it is. This is a luxury common to almost White people that parents of children of color do not have.
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While your grandfather and I had different paths and variations in our motivations, the result of being a workaholic was the same. While I have done better in recent years, I cannot justify my mistakes, even when made with good intentions. Living with the fear of not being good enough as a father will always haunt me.
I am sorry. I wonder about your reaction to reading this letter and how it will change over time. My worry is that your reactions may feel like a burden. My hope is that they are freeing and reflect the depth of my love in a new way. Some of the most freeing words that your grandfather spoke to me were ones giving me permission to recognize his imperfections. It took me years to accept his invitation. Maybe you can be wiser and accept my invitation earlier than I did his. Time will tell. It breaks my heart that I most likely will not live long enough to see your answers, as my father did not live long enough to see mine.
Part 5: Preserving Connection
Letter 33: Your Hands, Part 1
A few hours later, you were gone. Shortly after you had died, I touched your leg. It was still warm, which provided some odd temporary comfort. Then, later, when we were leaving and had given the okay for the funeral home to come take you away, I touched your leg again. The warmth had faded and in sadness, I knew.
Letter 34: Always Enough
Now, I often do the same thing.
As I write this letter, I feel conflicted—more so than with any other letter. While the reasons for the behavior may be different, I am much like you. Sadly, I have developed similar habits and often struggle with guilt about having worked too much while my sons were growing up. I guess we are a classic "Cats in the Cradle" family.1 Like you, I often give much to others. Also like you, I generally do not worry about the return. […] This "gift" is from you. The generativity mindset, or "heartset," is a gift.
I worry, Dad, about how you experienced this and if you continued to carry guilt similar to the guilt that I carry. These questions now can never be answered. But I want you to know that even when you were not perfect, you were always enough. You provided us with enough love, time, and support that John and I both grew up happy and successful. There have been things to work through, but even there you helped prepare the way.
I do not know with any certainty whether Heatherlyn, my sons, my friends and colleagues, my students, and my clients experience me as enough. I suspect the answer is not always what I would hope, especially because like you I too often take on too much. If I can be enough in any realm of life, I hope that it can be relationally—in my love and care for others, the diverse others who fill my life and bring me joy. This is my deepest and most imperfect pursuit in life.
Letter 35: Waiting for the Sunrise
Now I sometimes crave the darkness just before the light instead of the darkness at the end of the day. It is not to force the light, but to let it emerge naturally, however long it takes, letting it gradually reveal itself without being thrust into the fullness of the light. I am still learning the lessons and significance of this change.
I miss you, Dad, including the parts that you would never reveal. I wish that I could have known them—that you would have trusted me with them. I wish that I could have found a way to show you that these places are not so bad. I wish I could have chased these monsters away to allow you to be comfortable in the night. But I will have to settle for having arrived in time to hold your hand in those last moments. A darkness was coming that even you with your superpowers of optimism could not hold off. I could not hold it back either, but I could hold your hand and let you know through my touch, if not through words, that you were not alone. You were loved, and you were not alone.
Letter 36: Nature, Bicycle Riding, and Grieving
A big part of my healing is feeling the different emotions concurrently. Feeling the freedom, awe, and joy alongside the grief was what I needed today.
Part 6: The Darkness
Letter 39: The Last Time I Left You
That night, I walked slowly through the hospital. A fast, or even normal, pace did not feel right. Everything felt slow. I drove home slowly. Instead of going the faster route, I went through downtown Denison. It was quiet and lifeless, foreshadowing the coming hours.
Letter 40: Guilt
Before I left the hospital, I asked your nurse, Olivia, to call me if anything changed. She wrote my name and phone on the whiteboard in your room. I went to sleep thinking that I would get a call if Dad was likely to die that morning before I returned. A little before 4:00 AM, John knocked on our door. I did not register it in my deep sleep. Heatherlyn awoke, and then she awoke me. John came in and said that you had died. The guilt hit immediately, but I pushed it aside and responded to John. I told him I would get dressed and would be down in a couple minutes. As he closed the door, in frustrated tone I said, "I shouldn't have left."
Heatherlyn right away responded, saying, "Don't do that to yourself." I told her that I needed to feel the guilt so that I could feel the grief. As John and I drove to the hospital, I told him that, too. He also told me not to feel bad, and I told him that I needed this to move on to the grief. He then joked that I was a jerk for leaving. Though I did not laugh, I appreciated the humor and hoped he did not misinterpret my lack of laughter.
I can live with the guilt, but I cannot be me without the gifts I gain from this guilt.
Letter 41: Teaching Grief
All this preparation for grief still cannot take away its sting.
Letter 42: A Letter to Those Who Have Shown Me Compassion and Love
While some relationships, including important relationships I routinely rely upon, have felt more distant since my father's death, overall I have felt more depth and intimacy in relationships since he has died than I have felt in a while. The painfully alone and joyously connected are closely intertwined. They always are, but more intensely so in this season.
Letter 43: I Need to Feel Small
Today, I am living in a space that no one else can inhabit.
In moments where hope could be touched, the community of other humanistic psychologists was palpably present. These moments of vulnerability and openness were real and powerfully felt. They were me, and the me I wanted to be. Yet not far away was another part of me that I wanted to find space for but could not. After the trip, a recognition emerged that when this other part of me beckoned, though it helped me feel more present intrapersonally, my attunement to others was not as sharp as usual. I grieved and felt guilt for what I missed, for not being as present to others.
There are times when it is good to feel insignificant. I want to see that the mountains will stand and the crowds will go on, even if I need to withdraw and grieve for a while. I need to know that beauty still exists now that you are gone. I need to know that I can be alone in the midst of all of this and be okay. I need the mountains.
It is a source of pride that I am able to be there for many others, too. Yet, I need to acknowledge my needs more often. Hopefully this can occur without sacrificing time for others. This grieving is providing an opportunity.
Letter 44: Coffee with a Friend
This provoked of one of my favorite stories of Jim Bugental. Jim is a famous psychologist and one of the early founders of existential‒humanistic therapy. I had the privilege of training under him late in his life. By this time, Jim had sustained a stroke that severely impacted his memory. Depending upon the day, he could remember somewhere between 15 and 40 minutes. He would do therapy demonstrations that lasted longer than his memory that were quite amazing, illustrating the power of being in the here-and-now moment.
One day, there were about 30‒40 students in a room with Jim. He had never met most of these students before, and most of whom he had met he likely could not remember. He told a simple but profound little joke, "I have spent all my life talking about the here-and-now, and now this is all that I have left." After he said this, he laughed a beautiful, authentic, free laugh. Then, very suddenly, he shifted to freely crying. The crying was just as authentic and open as the laughter. After he was done crying, he calmly said, "I am okay now. We can go on."
Letter 45: A Return to the Depths
Grieving thrusts us into reflection, whether ready or not. Though it does not outweigh the pain of the loss, I treasure the gifts that emerge from the reflection. When starting to write these letters, curiosity was a welcome companion alongside the grief. Previous experiences have taught me that curiosity would aid the grieving process and illuminate the trail to these gifts. Some of these gifts I resisted, or said, "Not yet." Others, even if resisted, would overcome my refusal.
Part 7: A Lifetime of Grief
Letter 47: Preparing for More Grieving
There was something that felt arrogant about calling Murney a close friend when I was so much younger and less wise than he was. Many years after his death I am learning to claim this as something beautiful.
Letter 48: The Contingencies of Grieving
It is not only you that I am grieving.
Mom shared recently about how your own father's death impacted you. In her descriptions of your weeping and the depth of your pain, I felt both closer to you and a longing to have been able to experience such authentic vulnerability from you in the living years. In Mom's sharing, it was evident that this was the deepest heartbreak of your life. Her descriptions were of you crying in a way that I never saw you cry. You loved your father very much, but in Mom's sharing, I could also recognize how his death impacted you well beyond the grief. His death shaped how you engaged the world for years after he was gone—really, the rest of your life. You know the shattering that death or loss of a father can bring. I trust that you know the contingencies are not distractions, not looking away, not diminishing my grief at the loss of you. They reflect the power and space that you had in my life. Your being gone touches everything in my life.
Letter 49: Being Broken and Happy
In the last couple of weeks, I have found myself several times saying that I have become good at grieving. It is not easy; I have just become good at it. This does not mean that I look forward to grieving or move through my losses quickly. Rather, I found a way to dance and live in the presence of the losses.
In facing directly and engaging my brokenness, as well as other existential explorations, I began to recognize and, more importantly, embody the paradoxical reality that the joy and the tears were not separable. This is not a glorification of suffering. I do not seek or revel in suffering. Nor would I recommend this to others. But suffering is inevitable. There is no need to seek what will present itself to us in its own time; we just need to be ready.
At an earlier time in my life, I would have felt pangs of guilt for being happy right now. Happiness would have seemed to dishonor you. I bought into the lie of appropriate emotions for a situation. The years wading in existential waters (and existential literature) has freed me from this deception. […] So tonight, I hurt. I still cannot fathom a world without you, and I miss you terribly. But I am blessed.
Letter 50: Your Hands, Part II
You were a father worth missing.
Closing Reflections
Some of the greatest beauty I have witnessed in my life are faces of people I love and care about strewn with authentic tears. It is not the suffering that is beautiful, but rather the openness to suffer—to trust that there is something beautiful that can result in directly facing life and suffering. The trust, honesty, and vulnerability enhance and deepen this beauty. Any walls or barriers I have in the presence of these tears quickly melts away. Often, without touch, I have felt the embrace as if a hug from across the room when seeing these tears trace down someone's face. These tears never grow old or lose their power.
When we are broken, there are aspects of ourselves hidden in our day-to-day life that are revealed. Even the most self-aware person will at times be surprised by what they find when the blows of life expose us to ourselves. Grief with the interplay of loss and facing mortality can reveal precious aspects of who we are.