An Almost Tolerable Father's Thoughts on Father's Day

It's Father's Day today, so, as one does, I'm thinking about my own father and those who've been role models to me as fathers over the years. People like my mentor Steve Mandell and my friend Bruce Loughmiller, both of whom left us too young. I've written about them and those thoughts are linked to their names above. I think of them often and am grateful to have known them both. 

After the last Avery & Angela novel was published, Covid was raging and we were all stuck inside, many of us with a sense of existential dread that I've become all too familiar with in my life. So, rather than writing another novel at that time, I did a deep dive into my own life and mind, which produced the memoir AN ALMOST TOERABLE PERSON: Uncommon Thoughts on Life, Loss, and Looking Back. As part of that process, I revisited several of the losses of my life, including losing my father. I revisited my journals from that time and other writings I'd done about him and how his loss affected me, and I was surprised at what I learned about myself. 

It's funny how we learn as we age. What follows below is taken from a chapter of that book. 

Happy Father's Day to all who serve. 

                                DAD

I was seventeen years old on the day my father died of Multiple Myeloma, an insidious form of cancer.

I attended a few funerals during the nearly seventeen years between Patricia’s death and my father’s death, mostly those of strangers for whom I was providing a service as a member of the Trinity Church Choir. One of those funerals was for the mother of a fellow choir member. His mother was a teacher who’d been killed in the parking lot of her school, and I remember her service vividly. I was eleven. The son that she left behind was a few years older than me and was among the toughest kids in the group, at least as far as choirboys who like to roughhouse are able to reckon. He was not someone I knew well, but I obviously felt terribly for him.

Two things stand out in my memory of his mother’s service: first, I remember that we sang her favorite anthem which was “In the Bleak Midwinter,” even though it was spring. Second, I remember the sound that he made as he walked down the aisle toward his seat. His father had his arm wrapped around him as they walked together behind the clergy. As they approached the casket in front of the altar, he let out one, heartbreaking, guttural sob, which I could tell he was trying desperately to choke back. I felt such sympathy for him and regret the fact that I never got the chance to speak to him after the service. As it happened, he left the choir and I never saw him again.

The sound that he made stayed in the back of my mind until I heard that very same sound many years later, emanating from a student of mine whose mother was killed when a plane hit the 100th floor of the World Trade Center’s North Tower.

Beyond those funerals and the burial of one family pet, my experience with loss by the time I reached seventeen was limited. Looking back, I see now that I was very, very young. A lot younger and, as I look back, a lot less ready than I thought I was for what was happening to me. The death of my father colored every relationship and major choice I made for at least ten years after he died.

Dad was diagnosed with Cancer during Memorial Day weekend, 1990. He died October 9, 1990. The months therein were among the most difficult times in my life. I was sixteen when he was diagnosed and at that time, my father and I had a relationship that was very much in development.  We were really just starting to understand one another when he got sick, and I won’t deny the fact that there are a lot of days that I feel cheated out of the relationship with him that I would have had, had he lived.

Not surprisingly, there were challenges beyond Dad’s illness. I was a teenager. I had schoolwork and activities. I had friends and teachers and a learner’s permit. I was president of my class and prom was fast approaching, as were final exams. My AP History paper was due, I was supposed to be looking at colleges and I was in a really fun play. In addition, I had a serious girlfriend who was my best friend and then I did not. I had friends that genuinely tried to be there for me, but I alienated myself from many of them. The teenage version of myself did his best to play the new role of “dutiful son of a dying man,” and those human chameleon skills came in very handy that summer, in which I pretty much hid everything about what was happening in my life and within my mind and heart to everyone.

I was a mess and truth be told, I would remain a mess in one way or another for a very long time.

The journal that Mrs. Burnett made me keep as part of my Junior and Senior years in the American Studies program at HHS has, over the years, proved invaluable to me as I look back at things. I appreciate it so much that back when I was teaching English, I made my kids do the same thing. I always told them what Mrs. B told us when we asked why we had to keep a journal: “Because it’s a grade, and you’ll thank me later.”

I’m grateful to have those journals now because in looking back at those days, at that version of myself that was spiraling headlong into a decade of mismanaged grief and anxiety, I’m not certain what I’d really be able to reflect on, other than several flashbulb moments along the way.

I was sixteen when these entries start.
 
June 5, 1990:
Tonight was the Drama club end of year dinner and cabaret night. I sang “Imagine” by John Lennon and “Your Song” by Elton John…Dad came home yesterday-it’s definite, he has Cancer. I shudder just writing the word-WHY HIM? I know a search for the answer will prove fruitless, but I can’t help but wonder. It’s scary-the doctor says he has a lot going for him-perfect health, us, the best doctor (him) in the world. He’s got good chances but it’s a new field…but he has a low number of platelets or something. There’re just no answers. I don’t like it.
 
June 14, 1990:
I’ve been very selfish lately. I’m not going to get into why because it’s not important. I am going to make a change. I hope someday I’ll be able to just do things rather than be forced to.
I’ve been a fool. People care-that’s obvious. Self-concept and belief in myself must become subconscious. I’m a good person-I know. Good people love me. No more excuses.
I know I’m not going to be a coward. I love my family and I’m going to be here, make life easier. That’s why I’m here!
 
September 6, 1990:
It feels like I haven’t been gone at all-what a summer--Firstly, I spent hell of a lot of time in Princeton Hospital. My Father is very ill. Last night he went into Intensive Care with Pneumonia. What a way to start school…I’m scared.
Band camp starts tomorrow, and I’m not sure what to do. I called “Pelf” and asked her advice about whether to go or not and I’ve decided to go to Beemerville with the band-I really hope nothing happens at home-Dad is very sick.
 
September 7, 1990:
Today was the first day of Band Camp-it was a lot of fun-it’s really beautiful up here. I feel very at ease and very relaxed…I’ve called home a few times just to make sure all is ok-it seems pretty good-I’m beginning to think I’ve made a good choice by coming-it’s good to get away-I’m having a wonderful time. “Sweetchuck” and Adam are my roommates, and we busted into the best room here--we woke everyone up with “Tequila” this morning. Dad improved a little-at least nothing bad happened.
 
The band returned from Beemerville on Sunday the ninth of September. I went back to school on Monday, and my Dad was still in the ICU. No one was sure if he would ever come out of it. While I did not write this down back then, I remember the following moment with a clarity that speaks to me of the sheer joy and significance of the moment. It happened on Tuesday, September 11, 1990. I had Honors Physics with Mr. Grover every other day for the last two periods of the day. I was an enthusiastic student of Physics, but not very good one. I weaseled my way out of class that day to stop into the Shally House office, which was around the corner from Grover’s room. The secretary, who was exceedingly kind, once again allowed me to use the phone to call the hospital to check on my father, who was in the ICU at the time and unresponsive. I called the all-too-familiar number and reached my mom, who told me that my Dad was back, and awake. It was as though he had simply had a long nap and had woken up.  He seemed to have sat up and asked about what was going? It was a huge and unexpected relief.  I remember running into my friend Kari on the way back to class and not only hugging her out of nowhere, but twirling her around in the air. It was the first time I had felt hopeful in a long time.

The weeks that followed were significant. I can’t recall a moment after that, for a long time, where I was so enthusiastically hopeful, or perhaps hopeful at all. It was definitely one of the best hugs I’ve ever received.

After this point, my journal goes into after-the-fact retelling-mode, as I didn’t write in my journal again until three weeks after Dad died. Much as I do now, I kept notes in my calendar about the things that were going on in my life and wrote the following narrative with that in hand. I have edited a few things out since my thoughts on the football team and other such trivia are not quite as relevant to this topic, nor are my thoughts on my romantic relationships at the time. In addition, I am withholding the story of an epic canoe ride, a drive to pick up storm windows, my debut as a solo artist at the short-lived “HHS Club,” the delivery of a Renoir poster, seeing Flatliners at the Mercer Mall, “The Foreigner,” Hancock Field, and my first rehearsals as part of the 1990 NJ All State Chorus. This is not to say those aren’t good stories. Some of them are. They’re just not really on topic in this instance. But ask me again about those sometime, if you like.

Each of the following entries were composed in one sitting on a very flat, non-descript evening late October 1990 and cover the last few weeks of my Father’s life and the first few weeks of my life without him.
 
September 16
Was a special day-we sprang Dad from the hospital for a few hours. We took him to the church picnic and had a wonderful time. Just for him to be out among friends was wonderful. He is so charismatic with people-everyone loves him-as do I.
 
September 18
Dad got to come home-it was so wonderful to have him back home. He slept in my parents’ bed for the first time in weeks and said he slept great! It’s really wonderful to have him here-I hope it lasts for a while.
 
September 21
I had a little party-just some friends came over and we played music loud and ate and danced and talked and watched movies and stuff-it was nice to have people in my house-some of my best friends have never been here. Now they have.
 
The gap in time here covers a lot of the stories I mentioned above. I remember that time at home being very busy for me personally, with a pretty heavy course load, a role in the Fall play (until I was kicked out, as discussed in Part I), rehearsals for All State Chorus, the band, church, and the other social rigors of being a seventeen-year-old boy with an ‘85 Sentra to cruise in. A romance had ended in my life and others were beginning. I was pretty much every other thing I would have been at seventeen, except that my father was also dying. Life at home, as I recall, was pleasant enough. It was important to my parents that I try to maintain as normal a life as possible and I did. I was not as honest with the people in my life about how bad things were with Dad’s health. I remember some of my closest friends being legitimately shocked that my dad was as sick as he turned out to be.
 
October 6
The band had our first competition-what a night it turned out to be. As I marched on the field, I felt very confident. Dad at this point is very sick and I’m scared-Later, as I marched off the field, I realized that I had just played and performed well, and that my daddy wasn’t there to see it, and he may never be. He may never see his children get married or his son perform an original composition. I cried. I cried as I’ve never cried before, with TS and RA. I wanted my father back as he always had been. I guess I kinda knew.
 
October 7
Was the last time I saw my father. I went to the hospital alone and spent a few hours with him. I told him how I admired him for all he is and how I loved him. How much that is a part of me came from him. He was out of it and pretty unresponsive, but he held my hand and I held his. He didn’t really respond, but somehow, he must have heard me. He squeezed my hand and he knew I was there. Somehow, I know he heard me.
 
October 8
Somehow, I had this desire to call the hospital and see how he was. I called from the Band Room phone during fifth period. My Mom was with him and she put the phone up to his ear I told him I loved him and he said ‘I Love you.” With an oxygen mask on and feeling so weak, slowly losing it, he managed to tell me he loved me! That is the last time I talked to my father.
 
October 9
My Father Died. I was awakened at 6:30 am by a phone call from the nurse who spent the night with him and said, ‘He’s having a little more trouble breathing this morning, tell your mother.’ Mom had asked to be notified in the event of any change. By this point, Dad had developed the Pneumonia again that had put him in Intensive care and mom had decided not to treat him with Intensive Care. He made it back once and it was a miracle-a wonderful miracle. Mom didn’t want him to suffer in ICU forever. Mom left for the hospital. By the time she arrived, Dad had died. At the age of 50. She called me and said, ‘It’s not looking good, don’t go to school.’ She didn’t tell me he had died until she came home. I knew though. After I got off the phone with her, I walked to my backdoor. It was such a beautiful morning and there was this breeze-a warm, loving, and tender breeze. I went outside and walked around my backyard. It was very beautiful, the sky was a pale dark blue, free of clouds and the Sun made all the world so colorful. The dew had not yet dried and the birds were singing in my backyard that morning. That breeze lasted for 5 days. On the 5th day, I knew my father was in heaven.

Jean, the Rector of our Church came home with my mom. I had by now circled round to my side yard and saw them pull up. I knew. She told me. I held her in my arms. We planned the services that morning.

The first place I wanted to go was school. I did so-to get my books and to tell a few of my friends was had happened. I had “Pelf” and RA paged to the office and when they came, I took them outside and told them. We must have spent an hour outside talking. Pelf let the band know and helped organize people to come to the service.
She is one of the best friends I’ve ever had…

October 11-12, 1990:
On the 11th, we held a prayer vigil at my church for Dad. It was great…the service was on the 12th. I went into school for 3 periods (just for Pre-Calculus and American Studies) and it was nice. I can’t wait to go back Monday. I feel so at ease at school. All my friends are there. My Grandma and my uncles came Wednesday night. Some friends came over too. BP, JG, RA, TS, CR, and Pelf. I had told them before he died that when what happened happens, I would not want to be avoided or treated with kid gloves. They know me well. They are here.

The Funeral was Beautiful. We had a nice sized pickup choir, incense, banners, bombastic music. It was not dull at all. It was a beautiful service-so many people. I made a speech there. It was very well accepted by the people.

My sister’s friends from Ohio drove here for the service, 12 hours in the car, stayed for a few hours and went back that night for GRE’s the next day. It’s great to know she has such great friends.

Almost everybody came to the services-there were some surprises also. RL organized a whole bunch of Saint Paul’s School people to come, many of whom I haven’t seen since eighth grade graduation. I was just overwhelmed at the amount of support…I don’t know where I’d be without this band."
 
Late October, 1990:
…I miss my father. I’ve realized it’s pointless to ask why this had to happen to us. We really had an exceptional family situation. I used to come home from school and go to the kitchen and Dad would be at the table…the radio on and Mom would be cooking and I’d tell them what I’d done, etc., all day. Now I come home from school and he’s not there. On Monday night, the football game is not on. Every time I would go down to the playroom, all my life, he’d be there reading or watching TV and I’d watch with him for a bit in between homework…I miss him. I want him to be here for my All-State concert and to see me march in competition and sing and play with the Jazz Ensemble and play with the concert band. I want him to hear the music I write and meet his grandchildren and travel the world with Mom when they retire. I want him here. Somehow, I think he can see me…This is not how it was supposed to be, but they say life gives no guarantees…

From where I stand, the sun is still shining. I look to the sky, but I ask no questions. I know it will not answer the questions I have…There is a breeze that reminds me that I am loved.
 
The journal continues beyond this point, but the entries are all over the place and are mostly evidence that I was lying to myself. At least, that’s how they seem now as I look back. Things were falling apart for me, rapidly, and that was due, in large part to the fact that I wasn’t dealing with any of the things I was feeling and experiencing. I was playing the role of “well-adjusted young man who’s moved on in a healthy way,” but I was nothing of the sort. I just didn’t know that yet, and neither did the version of me that was writing in those journals. I soon lost interest in journaling when it stopped being a class assignment later in the year, and I was expressing myself more through awful poetry and later, songs, starting with such non-hits as “The Road Not Far Behind” and “The Beach Song.” For the bulk of the next decade, that became my medium of expression. I wrote a lot of songs and later performed them, putting out several albums during my “singer/songwriter” phase.
Losing my father was obviously a far different experience than losing Patricia. Although my relationship with Dad was really still a work in progress when he got sick, we’d had an actual relationship. That said, I think it’s fair to say that there is one common thread that both of those formative losses share: what might have been.

In the months and years following his death, I did miss him. I missed his humor, his dynamism, and his presence, but what I missed the most is what might have been and the relationship that I might have had with him. I was an anxious and dumb kid when he got sick. I was never the same and my own inability and refusal to deal with the challenges of my life and those of others around me at that time clouded every relationship I had for nearly a decade following his death. I was a mess for years and I didn’t know it. I experienced a “fight or flight” reaction to any emotional connection I made, which made it very hard to let anyone in and maintain a relationship. I hurt a lot of really wonderful people in those years by simply driving them away and being unable to tell them why. I didn’t know why. It was my then future wife who finally got through to me and pulled me back from the edge, though that is another story.
 
We all have a history. That was a significant time in my life. While it’s fun, sometimes, to look back, I find myself looking back on those particular days with less frequency. The past doesn’t change much and there is an awful lot happening in the now and in the future that matter an awful lot.

That’s what I think. He was my father, and I loved him. His death and the manner in which I handled it affected me deeply for many years.  But I got better when I got help. That’s the primary realization that I walk away with after reflecting on the loss of my father: I needed help. I needed a lot of therapy and care, and I probably needed it the day after he was diagnosed. There were people that tried to help me along the way, but I didn’t let them. I convinced myself that I was strong and stoic enough to handle it all on my own. I convinced myself that I was like my father, who I revered as strong and dynamic and powerful and unflappable. I felt like I had accepted the mantle of the “Kugler Men” and with it my place as an adult, who didn’t let little things like feelings get in the way of doing what needed to be done, whatever that was.

I wrote the following in my journal a few weeks after his funeral:
 
I realize now that I owe him so much! I am SO much like him in ways I can’t explain. I look like him. I may not be as big as him now, but I feel I’ve got a wonderful model to follow. I am just like my father in so many ways. I am so honored to be his son. He’s not gone. He is here in my heart and in many of the things I am and that I believe in.
 
What I didn’t understand then was that my father was actually a human being. He was a regular person who dealt with regular people things, just like every other regular person. He had hopes and dreams and fears and worries, just like every other person. He made mistakes. He handled some things poorly. He needed help with things. I didn’t know any of that at the time I experienced the overwhelming weight of his loss, which brings me to another realization.

There was a lot I didn’t know about my father, the man I claimed to be “just like in so many ways.” I knew him as a child knows a father. I didn’t know him as a person. As a man. I had no context for how he had dealt with loss: the loss of his first-born child, his parents, and grandparents. My father and I never talked about Patricia, or about his childhood for that matter. The one thing he ever said to me about his father, who died before I was born was: “You’d have liked my dad. And he’d have liked you.”

Would knowing those things about him have impacted how I handled his death? Might they have had an impact on the next ten years of my life? Might I have avoided some of the heartache and disquiet of the next decade?

I honestly don’t know. I’d like to think so, but then, I likely wouldn’t be where I am today. That would be a loss of a sort as well. I found it interesting to revisit the kid I was then, as I am someone very different today.

Sometimes I wonder about the relationship Dad and I would have today had he either lived through his cancer, or had he not had cancer at all. Both are fantasies and I don’t indulge them often anymore. For many years, every time I had a big decision to make, or had someone new in my life, or some other important moment, I wondered what Dad would think. I don’t really do that anymore.

Maybe that’s growth. Maybe it’s maturity. Or maybe it’s just that I really have no idea who he’d be now or what he’d think, and I’ve figured out that it really doesn’t matter. I know this: He would have adored my wife. He’d have gone nuts for my kids and they would have loved him.
 
He was a good man. I wish I had known him better.

---Excerpted from AN ALMOST TOLERABLE PERSON: Uncommon Thoughts on Life, Loss, and Looking Back, Copyright 2021 by Robert Kugler, All Rights Reserved