Shaving Dad

She was right, he didn't know what he was saying but I knew what I was feeling and how long I had been feeling it!

I am often hesitant in writing too personally about my experiences, sometimes out of respect for those who share them, sometimes I just don't trust my interpretation and more often than not I don't wish to bore anyone.

Recently however, one particular incident revealed a familial pattern and its transmission so clearly I feel it is worth sharing, less for its content, more as a recognition of how embedded these  pesky little buggers are and how they play out. Recognition of this pattern allowed me to have a greater compassion for myself and a conversation with my son which, with the right approach, may help winkle this particular pattern out of my lineage,  

It began, predictably enough, with my Dad.

As Dad's dementia takes hold he demonstrates an almost continual disorientation, often not recognising family members, particularly Mum much to her annoyance. Unable to pursue a line of thought to the end of any sentence he rambles amiably and remains calm enough if not challenged or corrected. Most of our conversations involve me agreeing and often laughing, not at him but with him.  Spending time with my Dad has become a strangely light experience as he has no choice but to be present. It actually reminds me of hanging out with my sister's two year old grandson, who funnily enough really enjoys seeing Dad!.

On a recent visit I found myself with the unwelcome task of shaving Dad. He could turn the electric shaver on but was then somewhat perplexed by its operation. Dad was showing no awareness of who I was and had been pretty incoherent on the visit thus far. As I started to gently remove his less than impressive beard (family trait) there was a sudden lucidity in Dad. As a clear as a bell he grabbed my hand and said "you're doing it all wrong, you're pressing too hard, give it to me."

As innocuous as that sounds, I was suddenly the eight year old boy in Dad's garage being told, to my ears at least, that I was not good enough. My Dad was a woodwork and metalwork teacher and loved working with tools, losing himself in the craft and the materials. My enthusiasm to 'have a go' always felt like an intrusion and, however well intentioned my Dad's coaching may have been, the feeling I always had was that I was just not good enough. My clumsy attempt at wielding a plane or using a screwdriver would be met with "you're doing it all wrong, you're pressing too hard, give it to me."

I was always wary of Dad, or more accurately the risk of letting him down. Getting it wrong again.

As I stood with the electric shaver on that hospital ward I couldn't believe it. I was "getting it wrong" again. Dad had for all intents and purposes left the building, his mind had departed long ago but the pattern remained, a reflexive unconscious phrase that continued to wreak havoc. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry and as a result I actually stood there shouting "I'm F***ng 53 years old and I'm still getting it wrong." 

Mum looked on embarrassed and reassured me that he didn't know what he was saying. She was right, he didn't know what he was saying but I knew what I was feeling and how long I had been feeling it! 53 year-old freelance barber or 8 year-old boy in the garage I was feeling rejected at some level by the person whose attention and love I craved.

I shared this story with my cousin Kevin who recognised the same feeling from his Dad, my Dad's brother. He commented that he had never felt that way with my Dad. In fact Dad had always been patient, tolerant and brought out the best in Kevin, and on reflection I had felt the same way with Kevin's Dad.  I am sure this Father Son relationship stuff is comprehensively covered in the psychology text books and in all honesty I have been aware of it for years. The difference this time was my determination to feel right into it and I soon got my chance.

Like Father like Son.

The following week I got a call from my son Tom. He had just received a rejection letter from a recent interview for a job he was keen on and was struggling with the maelstrom of conflicting emotions which the rejection triggered. My usual calming rationalisations "it obviously wasn't the right job" or "there must be something better around the corner" were totally missing the point. These patronising platitudes are the typical responses we use to divert from the real gift in such situations, and the gift is the feeling. It takes some courage to go into the feeling with Tom because he is such an amazing being that he feels deeply...very deeply, but as we did so I recognised something immediately. 

Tom was feeling what I had felt with my Dad. Although I hadn't been available that week to provoke "not good enough" feelings in Tom, he still needed an opportunity to try to process that feeling and had creatively arranged the interview scenario to whip up those feelings.

I suggested to Tom that the current circumstances were irrelevant and asked if what he was feeling was familiar. When he said it was I was brave enough to suggest the possibility that he was just experiencing the sense of rejection and disappointment which he had felt from me when he was a child. It was an emotional yet enlightening conversation, hopefully for both of us. If Tom and I are able to sit with that feeling we have been unable to process maybe we will no longer need the universe to provide job rejections or unpleasant shaving experiences to encourage us to feel what we have avoided.

Dad was doing his best by me and would have been horrified to think he was in anyway upsetting me, just as I was  so upset to recognise that I had done the same to Tom. These patterns have a life of their own and as my Dad demonstrated will even survive the host, passing from generation to generation....until the feeling they are designed to elicit is finally felt. 

Thank you Tom for letting me share this and Dad for everything. 

Bill