Father and Son, Then and Now

Father and Son, Then and Now

John Paul Derryberry

“Are we done talking yet?” moaned a child tired of the questions and length of the conversation about the choices they had made. The conversation would have occurred in the early 90s on Troutman Road in Colebrooke, Ohio, where my disgust from my father taking his sweet time getting to his point. Or in Mason City, Iowa, in 2025, with my daughter, who was equally annoyed about how I was taking my sweet time to get to my point. When she uttered those words to me earlier this week, I was immediately transported back to my childhood and something I had no idea I would miss at the time, but miss dearly now, my dad’s long, long, long talks. So long that sometimes it would cross my mind that I wish he would just yell at me and get it over with, but that man rarely lost his cool, and I think we secretly knew the long conversations were way worse a consequence than anything he could come up with.

And just like that, I was a 43-year-old father, quietly grieving yet again the loss of my father from a long time ago. One of the cruelest things I think we do to folks grieving is never letting them know the fact that grief comes in waves, sometimes gentle and calm, and sometimes a tsunami wrecking any semblance of their life. What I would have given in that moment to call my dad and laugh over the realization I had become him. Talking to my child in length to drive the point home, through questions, and taking my time until my child uttered the correct answer. He would have gotten a rather good chuckle at his youngest child having to admit his technique was good enough to pass down to the next generation.

I have a great life, and I spend most of my days in some form of positive emotions. This seemingly small interaction caused the grief of losing my father to return. A small wave of grief reminds me that, no matter how great a life I have built, there will be times I turn around and think, man, if I could just call my dad. We all have this, people we miss, people we would give up a lot to have 5 more minutes with. I don’t spend most of my days pinning for a conversation with my dad. I’ve healed for the most part, because no one ever fully heals. We learn to live with scars, and hopefully, those scars allow us to become better.  But this past week, I would have loved one of his lengthy conversations. A son talking with his dad about being a dad.  Oh, what a lovely conversation, filled with laughter, memories, and a couple of annoying 'I told you so's' from my dad.

I’m keenly aware I’m at the age my dad struggled with health problems that ultimately caused his way-too-young death at 46. I would be lying if I didn’t say that being in that age range does not cause a lot of fear within me. Not getting more time with my wonderful wife and girls than 2 years and 9 months would feel like I had been cheated out of so much in life. I know the unselfish thing to say is that it would cheat them, too. I know that, but part of me is like I didn’t get decades with my dad, I want decades with my wife and kids. It’s a mental gymnastics that, as always, has had me trying to fit more into life than one probably should. A just in case I do not get the time I hope for, maybe cramming more into the time I do get will make up for any lost time.  I know that sounds like a weird math equation, because I haven’t lost the time yet. I can only reply that my grief and healing journey often has me counting and observing the time I get and the people who prioritize correctly. Most of the time, I use it in a healthy way, but sometimes it gets the better of me. But do not all our strengths and weaknesses go that way?

Being a husband and father has made me reflect more on my dad. The job my mom and dad did in creating a wonderful home. My dad always seemed to be focused on the correct things in life. And while I’m aware that it's a little nostalgia and a bit of clouded memory. I do hope that when my girls and wife look back upon our lives together, they have the same feeling. Because it’s a rather warm memory for me. That I mattered, that how I wanted to be loved mattered, and I was in a safe place to have an annoyingly long conversation with a guy who loved me and wanted me to figure things out. This grief wave will eventually head back out to sea, and life will go back to normal. It was a wonderful reminder that, no, my dad and I are not done yet. And that gave me hope that my girls and I won’t ever be done either. They will return to their memories of me and our conversations and find comfort. If I do that, no matter the time I get with them, it will be enough.