TV Dad

The last time I saw my bio-dad was actually on a TV screen several days after he died. The hubby and I paid a visit to my step-mother to...to do what? To share grief? Ask questions? I suppose to do whatever we do when a relative dies. I hadn't spoken to my Dad in something like 15 years, yet this wasn't a visit meant to soothe my guilt (of which I had none). I had actually spent some time the month before attempting to track the man down (again) and so wanted some sort of contact and understanding of his death. He had died as a result of severe burns from a house fire.

In part, I had came to look at the cottage he had been living in and where the fire took place. I also came to see the chair that his family claimed was the cause of the fire. I was hoping for some answers, some idea if a cigarette or an electrical shortage had caused the sparks that ultimately gave birth to enough heat to melt a good deal of his flesh.

Sharon, his wife, now his widow, was happy to see me; there is a commonality that grief offers. I truly don't remember much of what we talked about, and I haven't peeked at the journaling I did then. What I remember most was watching the VHS tape whirring in the VCR and the events of his 60th birthday party. (Was it 60? or 50 or 55?) We listened to Sharon's narration, and her daughter Susan's interjections, as many people passed by the screen. There were only a few names and faces that were familiar to me; I had spent so little real time in my bio-dad's world.

When Dad finally did some into view, he was carrying around a little dog. I'm not sure carrying is the right description. The dog was really tucked between Dad's arm and body, content in its roll as companion. There was clearly a great deal of affection between him and his dog. Sharon and Susan both made comments about the bond between the man and the beast. What I could see was a patience that I would not otherwise have attributed to this man. There appeared to be a place of infinite patience and parental love that the dog had managed to tap into. I'm not sure what is says that a dog could get into a place neither of his daughters nor any of his step-kids could. I could be jealous of that dog, but I'm not. I have a sense of gratitude that the man could finally find a conduit to feelings he had wanted so desperately to feel but had been incapable of accessing.

Dad knew he was being filmed, but would not pose or act for the camera. In fact he often gave the camera a look that said: you are only here by my good graces, but don't expect me to interact, and don't get in my way. He and the dog went on and off screen, sometimes glaring from afar. He refused to act the part of guest-of-honor.

That man had such a streak of manliness. That sounds odd, I know. But he did. He had this no-nonsense air about him sometimes that verged on frightening. He knew that the party, complete with live music and food and drink all night, was in his honor, so he played along. He ate, he drank, he sat and listened to music. He looked very much like the man I had known for the 10 years or so of my life when we weren't estranged.

I can't honestly say whether seeing that image of him helped or hurt my need to know...what? Who he was when he died? How he looked before he died? I had already learned that before the fire he was disabled and used either a wheelchair or a walker to get around. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who only began to receive regular insulin once he was in the burn unit. There may have been some high blood-pressure or heart issues at play as well. He wasn't supposed to smoke, yet the newspaper report said he fell asleep in his electric easy chair with a burning cigarette.

The chair was made to lift him up to a near standing position when he wanted to move out of it, or recline when he wanted to relax or sleep. According to the family, he wasn't even in the chair when it caught fire.

I'm finally ordering a copy of the fire report. I tried over 2 years ago, but the two voice-mail messages I left for the local fire department weren't returned. This time I spoke with a real person.

In a way I feel fortunate that the most recent pictures in my head of my bio-dad are the same as the ones before we stopped speaking. I can live with a picture from the TV screen.