Relationships with parents do not end with their death… And it seems to me that parents always die before you have time to tell them something very important…
I learned that my father was in the hospital when I returned from my first archaeological expedition in 1994. It was very strange to think that dad was in a hospital room. He always seemed to me big and strong, a jack of all trades. An experienced tourist, he carried huge (especially in my childhood perception) backpacks with 30 kg. weight, put up tents, kindled fires even in the most damp and without special devices. With his golden hands, he made almost all the furniture at home, and my sister and I slept on beds made by him. In my perception, my father was a man who could do anything.
But he was reserved for showing warm emotions. He was demanding. He wanted me to learn how to do everything with my own hands: hammering nails evenly, tightening screws, working as a U.E.N.C…. He really wanted me to be like him… He taught me to play chess, but I didn’t like to lose, and then he got angry at me … His approval was important to me, but even more I wanted to run in the yard or watch cartoons that were on TV at that moment. Soviet childhood — no video recorders, everything is only according to the TV program, which is why these very cartoons have acquired special significance. And he kept demanding to help him, because the man needed it. He fell into a rage from my “childishness” — sometimes it seems to me that he really wanted to see an adult son, and not this awkward teenager of 11-13 years old …
On the other hand, he made swords and bows for me, especially when, after the Robin Hood series, the whole court began to fight with the sheriff’s warriors. And when I broke my wooden sword, he took this piece and, having processed it, received a short ancient Greek blade. I looked at this “stub” in bewilderment, and he said that with such short swords, Alexander the Great conquered half the world. I heard about him for the first time then — I had not been interested in history before. And he proudly ran into the yard, telling his Tajik friends about who Macedonian was. There was a slight irony in the fact that in Tajikistan they knew and know well about Iskander the Two-horned — he was in these parts … (I recalled my father in my first year at the history department, when I played the role of Macedonian at a historical colloquium in the form of a trial of Alexander).
My father did a lot for me, but I can’t remember him ever saying to me: “Son, I’m proud of you” … This is what I most longed to hear from my father. But at best I heard «normal» or «will do.» He did it by expressing his feelings only through objects, and I was terribly missing that he hugged me and said something like “come on, son!”. By the beginning of adolescence, I began to feel a gradual, slowly but surely growing anger at my father. At the same time, I was very similar to him — both outwardly and in restrained behavior, and I preferred to express my feelings in an ironic and malicious form — I was simply afraid to openly and directly show them … The first conflicts began. I didn’t do this, I didn’t do that… Father’s outbursts of rage (especially strong because of his restraint) could develop into a noticeable cuff or even a blow with a belt. I ran to my mother and complained about my father — they say, he called me a son of a bitch, my mother stood up for defense … Relations went into the stage of alienation, I lived my life, my father, we practically did not communicate, and I convinced myself that I was from my father nothing is needed. During periods of exacerbation, it sounded in my soul: “so you die!” … And the sword and shield made by my father for me were gathering dust somewhere in the corner …
At that time I did not know about such a disease, «leukemia», and the word «cancer» did not mean much to me. I then asked my mother: “Is this a serious disease?”. By the reaction I guessed — yes, serious. Did you get scared? No. At that time, it somehow didn’t matter, and it didn’t fit in my head that there might not be a father — he was once and for all a certain given … I went to visit him in the hospital a couple of times — simply because “I need to visit”, And our conversation didn’t go well at all. So, meaningless words, awkward silence — as if two complete strangers are trying to find a common language … It seems to me that dad tried, but I had no time for him … Or rather, I was frightened by the sight of my father lying helpless in a hospital bed and connected to dropper … When I visited him for the last time, he got out of bed and walked me to the very threshold. It was a rainy day, mid-September. At some point, I looked back and saw that my father was still standing on the threshold of the hospital, looking at me through the veil of rain. Something trembled in me, but I hastily turned away and walked faster.
A few days later, my mother, having come home, told me and my sister that my father had died.
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Anger did not go away after the funeral, it was just hidden away. It manifested itself in the desire to be in no way similar to my father, and when my mother or someone I knew noted some similarity, I felt nothing but irritation. However… Over time, I discovered in myself the legacy of my father. Passion for hiking/expeditions. The ability to saw-plan-hammer when making a table for the eldest daughter. And many more small features, so characteristic of my father, suddenly appeared in me one after another, as I grew older. I didn’t like all of them, but it was his legacy, the legacy of a living person, not an icon … And when I proudly finished the table, I felt that my father was getting closer, and that I was not at all ashamed to recognize that I do it. Communicating with my daughters and my wife, I, gaining experience of adult life, began to understand my father better — what he faced, what he could think about, what to worry about and what could disturb him. And at one point — it was in personal therapy — I broke through. The last time before that, I cried just before the funeral, after which — as cut off. Many years later, the tears came again, and I mourned not only his death, but also what could have been between us, but will never be.
I came to the grave in the spring, when the leaves had already begun to unfold and the air smelled of buds. Having tidied up on the grave, I looked at his portrait for a long time, under which are the dates of his not at all long (as I now realize), forty-five years of life. It was important for me to talk to him.
Dad, I never recognized you. I don’t know what has been bothering you so much in recent years. What did you think about me, about your relationship with me. You never saw me as an adult … But I grew up, dad. Look, I have a wife … Two wonderful daughters … Yes, dad, you have granddaughters, as many as three, can you imagine — my daughters and sister’s daughter … And how I would like to see your granddaughters sitting on your lap … I think you I would definitely make something for them… Yes, you are simply our patriarch… Dad, I miss you. I try to imagine you old — but it doesn’t work, in my memory you forever remained at your 45. I remember how you looked at me for the last time, and how I hurried to run away from my own fear of never seeing you again … And although it has already passed 19 years old, I still sometimes want to hear from you: «Son, I’m proud of you.» And tell you what I really wanted to tell you the last day we saw each other.