I am not a Daddy’s girl.
I do quite literally owe him my life twice over – beyond the reproductive contribution of his gamete cells. Firstly, he was there at my delivery and realised this limp blue baby needed oxygen fast – so he removed the cord from my neck and gave me the kiss of life. Secondly, he saved me from a drowning accident at age 5, diving into the water with a suit and fancy shoes, as we were at a wedding.
My father is a flawed human being.
None of us realised how flawed until my parents separated just shy of their 40th wedding anniversary. We got the story of my father’s infidelities from him, as there was a real risk that other family members would tell us, out of moral outrage. Over a decade later, we are still trying to work out how to live with the dynamic of our divorced parents – made harder by their clear and ongoing affection for each other, despite the hurt of the past and Dad being with “the other woman”.
I treasure the times with my father now – which are infrequent as we live in different countries – as he gets older and more frail. I have to count each time potentially as the last we will spend together.
My Dad is a gentle soul. Being partially-sighted and ill-coordinated meant he did not fit a culture which venerates physical prowess. Along with this, he was wise from a young age to his father’s drinking and mood swings (only identified as combat-related stress after his early death from alcoholism). His own childhood in England spanned the duration of the second world war, with his father serving away from home for much of the duration. He did have his grandfather present in his life, but this was a man of a different time – a man who was a harsh disciplinarian and who did not encourage physical affection. During my childhood, I seldom remember Dad’s anger and know he fully supported my mother in the radical notion of raising children without physical discipline – my parents used “time out” well before it was a mainstream method for correcting bad behaviour.
Dad wanted us to know what he did for a job, and I have memories of walking through long echoing corridors of hospitals hand in hand with him. Him greeting the porters with the same polite and respectful tone he used speaking to the senior medics. He took us into the research areas and let us look in the windows of the operating theatres. We knew he worked hard, but he also made sure we understood our mother’s work to run the home was equally valuable. Once I was well established at school he encouraged and supported Mum back into her professional field of work and was her biggest fan during the 20 years she used her professional qualifications.
Dad believed in his children and their ability to succeed, but was certain that we had to chose our own path. Many of his surgeon colleagues were horrified that my brother became a physician, yet Dad is immeasurably proud of his son’s professional journey. With me, when he knew I had the ability to get the grades for medical school and was aware of the immense pressures I was getting to follow that path, he said “You must do what is right for you, but I worry that of all my children you need your sleep.” Giving me his blessings, but seeing me with a clear insight as to what might be in my best interest. When we talk now about the work I undertake in a profession allied to medicine, he reflects that my career has been much more interesting and varied that medicine would have permitted me.
Despite my father’s infidelities, I have no doubt he loved my mother. Human beings are complex, and I don’t even try to understand what happened in their marriage – but I do know that there was genuine love and respect, because I saw it again and again in my childhood. I remember one of the first weekends Mum was away from home with work, and Dad getting us up really early so we could paint the dinning room in time for Mum coming back to surprise her. I don’t think Mum would have chosen the warm butter yellow we decided on, but we got it done (with remarkably little paint spilled given it was an 10 year old and a 14 year old assisting), and that colour remained for the whole time we lived in the house.
Dad is aware of both his mortality and his disposability as an older man. His failing body frustrates him, and I was mindful to balance my need to look after him alongside his need for independence during our recent adventure together to Scotland to look into family history. I certainly enjoyed moderating my usual frenetic pace of life to more gentle one to allow him time to rest his body, while stimulating his mind in our efforts to track records of elusive ancestors.
Many feminists appear to have stories of fathers being abusive, oppressive or absent. My father is none of these. He was both a product of his generation and one of those who forged a path of true equality in marriage. His was the role model I have for loving men. For this gift, I can not thank him enough.
On our last evening in Edinburgh, we were walking to the theatre, my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, walking in step with him standing tall and straight dressed in a long dark coat. I was there as the newborn, as the child rescued from drowning, as the daughter learning about equality from how he spoke to everyone. I was with him as the painting assistant, the student deciding a career, as the daughter seeing her parent’s love and their marriage breakdown. I was there feeling both protected and cherished, and being the one to protect and support.
I am my father’s daughter.
