The Thing About Dads

A few weeks ago, I was listening to the audiobook “On the Bright Side,” by Melanie Shankle, while I made a stuffed cabbage casserole like all good suburban moms in the midst of a pandemic should.

She was referring to the death of her husband’s father when he was a young boy and said something that instantly brought me to tears after seventeen long years of having only one parent Earthside. I kept digitally rewinding the audiobook and listened to her say it over and over while I allowed myself to cry and sit in the absence of my own father, something I rarely allow myself to do any longer.

“The thing about dads is that sometimes, it’s hard to know exactly what they do until they aren’t there to do it anymore.” —Melanie Shankle

It was a comment that only members of the Orphan Club could make and know.

The Orphan Club

(The Orphan Club is a club started by my childhood best friend, Laura Morukian. She was the club’s first President and then she inaugurated me as the Veep our senior year of college, post-Doug Zwirner’s funeral. We laughed about it, as only members can do, and it made people around us exceptionally uncomfortable, which sociopathically made us laugh even more.)

Laura was the first person I knew to lose a parent.

Her mom died from cancer when she was a sophomore in high school and, because I knew kindergarten-Laura, I could see clearly that a piece of sophomore-Laura died along with her mom. Other people were scared to get close to Laura, to mention her mom or say something that would make her more upset. Somehow, karmically, I knew to just be with her. I knew there was nothing I could say to make it even worse. It was already the worst. Her mom was gone.

The absence of her mother, Joan, in their house was perhaps one of its most distinguishing features in the early years of her death.

I spent the night at Laura’s house almost every day of our junior and senior years in high school, even school nights, which, if you know Mary Ellen Zwirner, is a massive deal. Laura and I shared the queen-sized bed in her room every night and as I lay there, I would try my damnedest to help her breathe in the air in her bedroom which no longer contained the scent of her mother.

We were teenagers and didn’t have the language or skill sets to process grief, so we did it in our own ways by driving to Burger King every night on homework breaks, watching Dawson’s Creek and drinking Slurpees, and beeping the horn of Laura’s hunter green Grand Am as we drove past our crushes’ houses.

Fifteen feet from Laura’s bedroom, there was a china cabinet in the dining room full of porcelain plates and crystal wine goblets and when I’d get out of bed at night to creep across the hallway to the bathroom, the glasses would shake, ever-so-slightly and they’d remind me that Joan was gone, that they wouldn’t be shaking and all would be still if she were there.

If Joan were still there, I wouldn’t be spending the night on weekdays and we wouldn’t be eating fast food on the daily.

If Joan were still there, the living room shades wouldn’t be drawn as often and there wouldn’t have been dust on the tv cabinet. Mr. Morukian wouldn’t have slept in the uncomfortable leather recliner in the living room by himself and the annual family photo albums wouldn’t have stopped at the 1997 album.

When They Aren’t There To Do It Anymore

I recalled the early days of my dad not being there to just do the things he did without us knowing. Those first few months after his death, walking into the garage and basement of my parents’ modest ranch felt so awkward, like arriving for a surprise party early and sneak-eating appetizers which weren’t for me. Like, will we be needing twenty different wrenches anymore? Should I move that motor oil? Lord knows I have no idea where to even pour it in an engine, let alone find an appropriate, environmentally friendly drop off site.

One of my hardest Orphan Club moments was an early Sunday morning, only a few weeks after my dad’s death.

I was a new college graduate at that point and also the new Orphan Club Veep, so my grieving skill set was a bit more polished than Burger King trips and Dawson’s Creek, but still nowhere close to therapy and guided meditations.

I wanted to be alone with my grief, so I drove to the church in which I was raised in my dad’s luxury cruiser. After mass, I got back into the car, closed the door on the heavy sadness following me, and the alarm began to sound. The horn blared and blared and I frantically tried to shut it off. I pushed button after button and anxiously attempted to silence the horns.

“Please,” I screamed aloud. “Stop. Please, stop. Dammit. Dammit. Where the hell is the button to shut this off? Come on,” I yelled and negotiated as I banged on the steering wheel and cried helpless tears.

This was his to take care of. This was his phone call to answer. This was his to save me from. “He knows how to fix this for me and he’s not here,” I thought as I cried and banged the steering wheel in succession.

Parishioners well-aware of who I was and why I was so upset began to gather near the car and compassionately try to help me silence the alarm, but it continued to blare. It was like the universe was saying, “Attention, Sarah Zwirner. The guy who takes care of all the shitty jobs like filling out financial aid forms and taking cars for oil changes is gone. And he’s never coming back, no matter how hard his absence is to carry.”

What Dad Does

I learned that this is what dads do not because it’s what mine did, but it’s what he didn’t.

What he couldn’t.

Feeling the absence of all of these experiences instead of feeling the presence of them felt like grief in liquid form, circulating throughout all cells, all tissues, all organs.

He comes to my college graduation.

He drives the family up north and takes everyone for boat rides and ice cream.

He wears Velcro tennis shoes to family barbecues and eats two hamburgers while I’m making a lettuce wrap for my turkey burger, post morning lunge routine.

He helps me paint the walls of my first condo that I just kept signing papers for without fully understanding because I was 22 and fatherless.

He meets my husband.

He dances with me at my wedding. Hell, he walks me down the aisle at my wedding. Five years post wedding, I still can’t type that without crying. That aisle was ours to walk and I knew for twelve years pre-Sarah Meyer that it would never happen. I had to get that moment over with in order to fully enjoy my wedding.

He holds my babies at the hospital. He holds Maeve so tight and he looks at me and confirms that just as my daughter brings me ultimate joy, I bring that for him. He holds Maverick and smiles, thinking that, after holding five daughters, he finally gets to hold a grandson.

He texts me and leaves voicemails for me about things he considers emergencies, like car registrations and black ice on the morning commute.

He answers the phone in the early days of the pandemic when I am panicking and frightened and helps hold my fear with me.

He is present to listen. He is present to understand. He is present to console and love and laugh.

He is here.

Orphan Club Meeting Notes

If your father’s absence is heavy for you to hold this Father’s Day, I see you. As I carry my own, know that I’m mindful of you carrying yours.

Flat out, Orphan Club membership really sucks sometimes. It’s not a club I ever wanted to join.

And us members know that Father’s Day isn’t even the hardest of days. It’s those random Tuesdays and winter evenings when your grief is so alive you have to physically swallow it and turn the other way in bed so you don’t have to explain to your partner why you’re crying. It’s when you see your friends’ fathers hold their babies and your heart physically hurts because your father will never hold your babies.

Oil changes, moving bulky furniture, changing the air filter, carving the turkey. That’s all for fathers.

Happiest of Father’s Days to my one and only.

You are forever missed and forever loved, Doug Zwirner.