I wish

I wish.  Two words that pop into my head a lot. Surely, it is inevitable after a loved one dies.

I just finished reading the book The Women, by Kristin Hannah. It’s historical fiction about the role women played during the Vietnam war, in country. A good book, though not the point of this blog. But, it got me thinking, not at all for the first time, how much I don’t know about my Dad’s service in Vietnam during the war.

My Dad, Larry, died on October 30, 2010. Since then, I’ve had a lot of time to notice the gaps in my knowledge about him and his life – specifically as it relates to Vietnam, as it was something we never discussed. All that I do know is that my Dad was a mechanic. He essentially learned his trade in Vietnam, which did serve him for the rest of his life. I also know my Dad had suffered in some way during his service, as obviously and unfortunately, probably everyone did. My recollection of what my Mom chose to explain to me, at some point, was that he had experienced the bombing of his barracks. Once, twice, often, I don’t know. But he was there. In camps. Servicing military vehicles for two years. He was not a foot soldier due to a medical diagnosis of “hammerhead” toes. (As a side note, those toes made my sister and I laugh when we were kids! Ewwww!) My Dad contracted rheumatic fever during his service, and the timing was such that when he was released, he was very sick. He returned, via Hawaii, to small town Indiana where he ended up in the hospital for quite a while. Mom only began dating my Dad after his return, so this is when he entered my life. I was five when they married, so I was a witness to post-war effects, including very disturbing, frightening  nightmares which were explained as memories of the war.

Growing up, I knew my Dad to be a quiet person. He smiled and laughed a lot, appeared generally cheerful, and always going above and beyond to help others. But never, did I ever, dive below the surface. Not about Vietnam. Not about anything, really. I got the idea and hung onto it for too long, that we should not talk about Vietnam with Dad.

We may think our parents aren’t interested in sharing details of their past or certainly that it could be uncomfortable. And, how many times have they been met with an eye roll when they say, “when I was a kid….” But wait, if you stop and think about it, don’t you really WANT to know what it was like when they were a kid. Maybe it’s off-putting when we hear it as a lesson. Perhaps with different timing and a process for asking the right questions, there would be a greater openness and ease from both sides.

We have Mom’s diary from her high school years. We actually found it while digging through her closet one day, and I asked her if she cared if we read it. She said, go ahead!  My niece began devouring it.  Actually, the three of us sat with it for a few hours. We asked her questions. We marveled over her tiny handwriting. And we giggled together about some of the things she wrote – the fact that staying home to wash her hair on a Saturday night was diary-worthy, or that some boy honked at her and her friend Susie and made them blush.  This diary was certainly an opening I could have stepped into with Mom. But we never really did. And a few short years later, with dementia, she wouldn’t have been able to tell much of a cohesive story about her past even if I had asked.

Now, as I begin my practice as an end-of-life doula, this is part of my discussion with clients who are planning for end of life.  What do they want to leave behind? I want to help them find the best way to share what they wish to share. There are many options for doing it – published books or journals with great prompts, businesses that specialize in helping people to document their legacy through simple technology. We can even quite easily do the work through conversation and archive it in a book, file, audio recording, etc. The biggest barrier may be time. We like to think we have a lot of it.

Learning about our parent’s history is a way to grow from their experience. To better understand the lessons the world has taught them can only enrich how we lead our own lives. It is our own history, too. But there is also another reason to learn it through discovery. It is a beautiful opportunity to connect, to deepen our love and understanding, and maybe even to heal. And, when they are gone, we just don’t have another opportunity to ask. Ever.

We are all busy, busy, busy with our own today and tomorrow – often trying hard to not live in the past or forcing others to do so. I get that. And, I believe it’s probably not easy to be intentional with these questions. It’s not entirely comfortable.  After a loss, “I wish,” is inevitable. “I wish we had more time.” “I wish they could be here for my…” “I wish I knew what they thought about…” We won’t be able to avoid that. But, something we can do now is seek to know the depth of our parents’ lives a little more before we find ourselves saying, I wish I had asked.

*diary photo credits, Sarah Woll

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