Daddy Issues

Back in 2005 I had an assignment in my English course called "Snap Shot." We were to write an autobiographical essay in the form of little snap shots. This is my essay with a current update following.

My Father

10:00 pm

My head is pounding as I punch another equation into my calculator, I am 

tired. My husband enters the living room and takes the textbook from my lap, 

quietly closing it and setting the heavy book aside, he takes my hand, “It’s 

time for bed. If you want to do well on your finals, you’re going to need a good 

night’s sleep.” Although I protest, I know he is right, reluctantly I follow him 

into the bedroom. I quickly change into one of his shirts, charcoal gray and 

instantly it falls down around my knees. I am not a small person, in height or 

weight. However, my husband is quite tall and even though I am 5’9”, he makes me 

feel small. We have been married for two years now and he has not changed a bit. 

Robert is still the most supportive person in my life, no matter how large or 

small my troubles are he is there to fix them. Our life together is a lot 

different compared to the life I had before we met.

10:15 pm

I turn out the bedroom light and crawl between the sheets. 

Robert waits for me, with his arms out stretched to bring me into his arms. I 

lay on my side, resting my head on his chest as he wraps his arms around me. He 

kisses my forehead and I breathe in deeply taking in the faint smell of Old 

Spice. The smell makes me feel happy, content and safe. This is the same cologne 

my grandfather wore when I was a child and it brings back good memories. I 

snuggle in close, ready for a deep sleep. Just as I close my eyes the phone 

rings. Annoyed, I throw back the covers and cross the room to answer the phone. 

My mother’s voice comes on the line, “Amy, you need to go to North Florida 

Regional, you’re father had a heart attack. Call me when you get there and let 

me know how he is, ok?” Most daughters would cry, scream or show some sort of 

reaction to this news, but for me it’s different. I hang up the phone and turn 

towards my husband. “I have to get to the hospital.” I say as I begin to dress. 

Robert does not need further explanation; this is not the first time we were 

woken in the middle of the night. This makes the eighth heart attack in four 

years, yet my father continues his damaging habits without remorse.

10:35 pm

I drive onto I-75 and head towards the hospital. Robert 

turns to me, worried, “Are you okay?” he asked attentively. My jaw clenches and 

I force a smile, “Yes, I am fine. I am just tired of these phone calls. I am 

tired of being the only one who goes to the hospital at 3 am and I do not 

understand why I go.” As I speak, I try to shove my emotions back, readying 

myself to see my father. I think back to all the times I’ve been to a hospital, 

for him and for me. Every time he’s gone to the hospital, I’ve been there. When 

he is released from the hospital, I drive him home. I have always done these 

things; I have always been there to support him. However, this attention does 

not go both ways. When I was born, my father could not be bothered to enter the 

hospital with my mother; instead he dropped her off at the curb in front of the 

emergency room. When my mother and I were released, we were forced to stay at my 

grandparent’s house. No one heard from my father in two weeks. In the years that 

passed, my father did not improve.

11:00 pm

Robert and I approach the ICU desk, the familiar hospital smell 

filling my nostrils. A nurse looks up from her paperwork and asks me if I need 

help. “I’m here for William Girardello.” I tell her. The nurse sighs heavily and 

looks me up and down. “I see. He’s in room seven. You’ll need to leave your 

purse outside the room though.” She informs me. Something about her statement 

makes me uneasy, but when I enter his room I understand. Sitting in a chair, at 

the foot of my father’s bed, is a police officer. He stands as I enter the room 

and I learn that my father, who is now unconscious, was violent when he was 

brought in. Apparently he punched an EMT and bit a nurse. Because of his 

actions, my father was sedated and tied to the bed. For the rest of his hospital 

stay he would be required to have a security guard or police officer with him at 

all times. The man clears his throat, “He told us he was married?” The officer 

questions me. Taking a deep breath, I reply, “No. He and my mother divorced two 

years ago. She lives in New Jersey, I’m his only relative.” I turn and look at 

my father for the first time. His skin is pale and gray, his breath ragged. The 

are many machines, recording his heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels and 

he is hooked to an IV that’s dripping medicine into his veins. I jump as Robert 

places his hand on the small of my back. I had forgotten that he had come along. 

“It’s going to be okay.” He says, reassuring me.

Midnight

I sit next to the hospital bed and listen to my father breathe. 

Sometimes he speaks out, obviously hallucinating. Some of the things he says are 

funny, but for the most part the words he speaks are vulgar and repulsive. With 

every curse word I turn to the police office, apologizing. I am embarrassed. 

Over the years, my father has done plenty to hurt me. There was a time not long 

ago when I wasn’t even talking to him. A year ago, I was left at the altar, not 

by my husband but by my father who was too hung-over to walk his daughter down 

the aisle. My uncle took his place and as I walked down the aisle in my wedding 

dress, my guests murmured. Not because they thought I was beautiful, or because 

they were overcome with joy, but because they wondered why my own father would 

not come to my wedding. I refused to speak to him for several months but when he 

had his seventh heart attack, I rushed to his side just as I have done now. 

Sure, he was never there for me but I am all he has now.

1:00 am

I step out of his room and call my mother. I tell her everything 

I know, I explain to her that he was violent and is now sedated. Although I want 

to, I do not cry. She’s asks me what I plan on doing and I tell her I will be 

staying with my father until he awakes. My mother replies heatedly, “You don’t 

have to do this. He was never there for you when you were growing up; you don’t 

need to be there for him now. Your father brought this on himself and he is not 

your responsibility. He does not deserve to have you there.” Anger fills me and 

for the first time tonight, I begin to cry. Through the tears I manage to say, 

“You don’t understand. I am all he has left, you left him, and you left me with 

this. I do not have the option of divorcing him. I am his daughter and someone 

has to care for him; someone has to be here when he awakes. Mom, I need to go.” 

I end the call abruptly and try to compose myself. I am angry at myself for 

breaking down now.

1:30 am 

“Mrs. Spears?” my father’s young doctor holds his hand out to 

me. Without hesitation, he explains my father’s condition, “I’m sorry to tell 

you this but, your father will be placed in rehab when he has recovered. He was 

intoxicated when he was brought into the ER and became violent with our 

employees. Once he reaches rehab however, he will need a family member to attend 

meetings and encourage him to stay sober when he is released. Will you be able 

to do these things?” I think back to my childhood and all the things I missed 

out on because of his drinking problem. I remember getting my first bike and 

having to teach myself to ride. I recall wondering where my father was when I 

awoke from surgery; I had a large tumor on my left ovary, but that was not 

important enough for him to be there. Most vividly, I remember the DJ having to 

skip the father daughter song at my wedding because my father was not there to 

dance with me. My mother is right he does not deserve me.

1:35 am

The young doctor awaits my reply and my husband places his hand 

on my back, supporting me once again. I turn to my father, who is still 

unconscious and think of what could have been. I also picture his house, empty 

and dirty, beer cans overflowing from the trash can and his cabinets without 

food. I imagine his upcoming A.A meetings and him sitting alone on the family 

days.  I turn back to the doctor, a tear rolling down my cheek and I whisper 

“Yes. I will take care of him.” I know that A.A will probably not work. I 

understand that he will probably not improve, and that this is not the end. 

Although I know all of these things, I feel that I must try. I will treat my 

father the way he never treated me, with respect and kindness. Although it is 

now too late for second changes and my father does not deserve my affection or 

my support, no one deserves to be alone. “Yes, I will care for my father.” I 

repeat out loud as I take his hand. 

3 months later, my father was released from rehab. He refused our offer to move into our home, so instead I traveled the hour drive a few times a week to make sure he was eating and that his home was clean. About a month later, he called me while extremely drunk. From there our already difficult relationship got worse. 

The last time I saw my father was July 2009. He showed up intoxicated to the playground we were meeting at (by this time Robert said that my father and stealing girlfriend were no longer welcome in our home) and left after 5 minutes claiming the short walk to the swing sets were too far. He only saw Max 3-4 times during his life and only held him once. I had to pay him $50 for each visit.

When Meghan was born he did not ask to come see her. He never met her. Then when his grandson died, my Max, he didn't come to the services or call to offer support. 

I tried for a long time. I always kept my door open, hoping that one day he would change. He never did. On April 1st, 2011 my father passed away from another heart attack. Despite my anger towards him for not showing compassion towards his own grandchildren I was on my way to the hospital once again when I received the news that he had passed. 

My father was cremated by the county because of his lack of life insurance. His home was ransacked by his drunken friends, and all of his possessions were stolen. Now I am left with the ashes of a father who was never a Daddy. 

P.S My essay was written in 30 minutes time. I received an A+. It was the only A I did not celebrate.