Three Little Words...
I am honored to be dipping my newbie little blogging toe into this week's Spin Cycle. Check out the other entries over at Sprite's Keeper. The topic for this week is saying "I love you."
These three words did not come easily to my family as I was growing up. Maybe it was the same for a lot of folks in my parents' generation. I knew they loved me, but they couldn't seem to say the words.
As a result, I struggled with them as well. I could write "I love you" in a card, but telling my parents in person was out of the question. In time, my mother and I tearfully learned to bridge this gap, but my dad was another story.
He was a strict, dependable father, but he had difficulty with anything emotional. And I would rather have jumped off a cliff than say those three seemingly simple words to his face.
Some time in adolescence I came up with a plan. I decided that on the day I got married, I would lean over and whisper it to him right before we walked down the aisle. It was a good plan, far enough away to seem like the day would never quite arrive, and allowing me to package my guilt into a neat little box and store it away for another day.
Of course, as I grew older I worried. What if I never married? I'd have to find another way to tell him. Or what if something happened to him, or me, before that day arrived? Coward that I was, that seemed to be a gamble I was willing to take.
My anxiety the day of my wedding had little to do with being a bride. I was terrified that the time had come. Nauseous and shaking in the back of the church, I nearly abandoned the whole plan. But after so many years, I knew I would never forgive myself.
So right before we took that first step down the aisle, I clutched his hand and whispered, "I love you, you know."
"What?" He stared at me, his face a blank. Clearly he had not heard me over the swelling organ music.
"I love you." I said it louder this time.
"Yeah." He smiled and patted my arm. "I know."
I laughed with relief. Okay, maybe I was a little disappointed he didn't say it back, but at least I'd finally said the words.
How much harder it must have been for him.
Almost eight years later, after I gave birth to my third child, I lay in a bed in ICU. Things were not going so well; I had lost a lot of blood and the doctors could not figure out what was going on. I was in terrible pain and completely drugged up.
From some far off place, the phone rang. And rang. After at least 20 rings, I managed to pull the receiver to my ear. It was my dad.
It's hard to remember the conversation. He was far away in North Carolina, alone and receiving confusing reports on my status from my mother, who'd flown up to help out with my kids.
His voice was soothing, much like it had always been when I was little and I called for him at night after a bad dream.
"It's really hard for me to talk, Dad," I remember telling him. "I better go."
"Okay, Baby." And that's when he said it. Or did he? "I love you."
Was it real? Did I imagine it, or had he just overcome his own self-imposed deadline, afraid if he didn't say the words right that minute, I might not be around to hear them later. To this day, I'm not completely sure.
These days, I'm a lot older and braver, and I tell my dad I love him at the end of every phone conversation. I don't wait to hear if he says it back. It doesn't really matter.
We never discussed that phone call in the hospital, and whether or not he said what I think I heard.
But I'm going to go with yeah, he did.
These three words did not come easily to my family as I was growing up. Maybe it was the same for a lot of folks in my parents' generation. I knew they loved me, but they couldn't seem to say the words.
As a result, I struggled with them as well. I could write "I love you" in a card, but telling my parents in person was out of the question. In time, my mother and I tearfully learned to bridge this gap, but my dad was another story.
He was a strict, dependable father, but he had difficulty with anything emotional. And I would rather have jumped off a cliff than say those three seemingly simple words to his face.
Some time in adolescence I came up with a plan. I decided that on the day I got married, I would lean over and whisper it to him right before we walked down the aisle. It was a good plan, far enough away to seem like the day would never quite arrive, and allowing me to package my guilt into a neat little box and store it away for another day.
Of course, as I grew older I worried. What if I never married? I'd have to find another way to tell him. Or what if something happened to him, or me, before that day arrived? Coward that I was, that seemed to be a gamble I was willing to take.
My anxiety the day of my wedding had little to do with being a bride. I was terrified that the time had come. Nauseous and shaking in the back of the church, I nearly abandoned the whole plan. But after so many years, I knew I would never forgive myself.
So right before we took that first step down the aisle, I clutched his hand and whispered, "I love you, you know."
"What?" He stared at me, his face a blank. Clearly he had not heard me over the swelling organ music.
"I love you." I said it louder this time.
"Yeah." He smiled and patted my arm. "I know."
I laughed with relief. Okay, maybe I was a little disappointed he didn't say it back, but at least I'd finally said the words.
How much harder it must have been for him.
Almost eight years later, after I gave birth to my third child, I lay in a bed in ICU. Things were not going so well; I had lost a lot of blood and the doctors could not figure out what was going on. I was in terrible pain and completely drugged up.
From some far off place, the phone rang. And rang. After at least 20 rings, I managed to pull the receiver to my ear. It was my dad.
It's hard to remember the conversation. He was far away in North Carolina, alone and receiving confusing reports on my status from my mother, who'd flown up to help out with my kids.
His voice was soothing, much like it had always been when I was little and I called for him at night after a bad dream.
"It's really hard for me to talk, Dad," I remember telling him. "I better go."
"Okay, Baby." And that's when he said it. Or did he? "I love you."
Was it real? Did I imagine it, or had he just overcome his own self-imposed deadline, afraid if he didn't say the words right that minute, I might not be around to hear them later. To this day, I'm not completely sure.
These days, I'm a lot older and braver, and I tell my dad I love him at the end of every phone conversation. I don't wait to hear if he says it back. It doesn't really matter.
We never discussed that phone call in the hospital, and whether or not he said what I think I heard.
But I'm going to go with yeah, he did.
Aren't we so lucky that extreme stoicism is not the fashion now?
Of course he said it.
Posted by: Jenn @ Juggling Life | June 02, 2009 at 11:39 AM
I was estranged from my father for most of my life, so this made me tear up a little.
Yeah, I think he said it too.
*sniff*
Welcome to the Spin Cycle.
Posted by: Jan | June 02, 2009 at 11:55 AM
I'm crying, this is so sweet! I love the way you captured it. My grandfather was a person who showed his love by providing and didn't take time for the "needless" displays which may have been needed. Because of that, my dad is always sure to tell me he loves me, since saying it is just as important sometimes. You're linked!
Posted by: Sprite's Keeper | June 02, 2009 at 02:01 PM
Of course he did.
Beautiful story, beautifully told.
Posted by: Nothing Fancy | June 02, 2009 at 02:58 PM
I love the way ypu write. You're an excellent storyteller. I related so much to your story, I grew up in a similar family. Unfortunately, both my parents passed before those 3 little words were ever said aloud.
Posted by: Jersey Girl | June 02, 2009 at 09:56 PM
What a sweet story! My family has always done the "I love you" thing at the end of every phone call and it got so automatic that I've said it to non family members on accident!
Posted by: Casey | June 02, 2009 at 11:23 PM
Ok, now you've got me crying. I'm sure he did say, "I love you". And if he felt he needed to call and re-assure you, you know he does!
Is your husband any better at it than your Dad? My husband is a lot like my Dad, but he does tell my LG he loves him quite a bit more. I think you're right. It might be a generational thing.
Great post.
Posted by: MamaBadger | June 03, 2009 at 11:57 AM
I remember telling my mother I loved her for the first time, not long before she died. I was 43.
Posted by: Joanie M | June 04, 2009 at 05:19 PM