I never felt a close bond with my dad. I always wished for a better relationship with him, and I think it’s something he wanted too, but it mostly felt like we were from different planets.

At the time I was young and socially underdeveloped. He was easily frustrated. It wasn’t a winning combination.

Most of my final memories involving him also involve disappointing him.

I know he was let down when I dropped out of the guitar lessons we were taking together. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that I should explain it to him? Maybe I wasn’t old enough to know how to articulate the fact that the pressure of formal instruction was turning something I really enjoyed into a miserable chore that was making me ill with anxiety. Instead I simply told him that I didn’t want to do it anymore. And that was it.

I can only imagine how much it hurt him. It seemed like I was sabotaging the one thing we had in common.

He was facing an uphill battle from the start. He bought me my first guitar as a Christmas present. What I really wanted was some stupid goddamn video game, or whatever. I barely remember what it was, but I distinctly remember trying desperately to seem excited and grateful for an expensive, sincere present that I totally didn’t want. He wasn’t dumb, though, and I’m sure he saw straight through it.

He probably reassured himself, believing it would pay dividends in the long run. He played guitar, and now I could do it with him. We’d finally have common ground.

Again, though, I was too young to fully appreciate the scope of his intent, and I actually thought he was being somewhat selfish. I didn’t get it.

We didn’t live together. One time he drove 25 miles from his house to pick me up and take me to the store just because I was bored and wasn’t old enough to get around on my own. Again, I just wanted some dumb video game. I guess that came with the territory of being a socially-impaired teenage boy.

He took me back to my house and hung around for a little while. At this point I was focused on what I had just purchased and didn’t have much left to say to him. After watching me try to figure out the basics of the game from a distance, he eventually said “I feel like I’ve been used.” Then he left.

He was basically right, and I’ll never be able to apologize for that.

During his last few months we shared a series of excruciating phone calls. The agony of trying to think of things to say to him ranks high amongst the worst things that I’ve ever been through. Anything to cheer him up, or at least distract him from the state of constant pain he was living in. But I had nothing. What can you say to your flesh and blood down some copper wire when you both know that this is the end? That’s fucking heavy for anybody of any age!

He died of cancer when I was sixteen.

I try to feel grateful for having known him that long, but sometimes I wonder if it would have been better for both of us if I had never known him. Or maybe if I had only known him when I was very young.

But that’s not the point. All I’ve been talking about is myself. And that’s basically all I can really comment on, because I only ever knew him in that limited capacity. I never had an adult conversation with my dad because I wasn’t an adult while he was still alive.

This isn’t meant as some attempt at tugging heartstrings. I’m not looking for sympathy. I don’t mean to be cynical, but there’s really nothing you could say that would make me feel better about this.

If you can, have a conversation with your dad today. Get him riled up over something he’s passionate about and listen to him talk about it for a while. Try to introduce him to something new that you think he’d enjoy.

Make a point of appreciating your dad as a person, not just who he is in relation to you. Take advantage of that opportunity while you still have it.

Happy Father’s Day 2014, Carl Alan Buhl.

Love,
Carl Francis Buhl