Grieving the Death of an Absentee Parent

On grief, death, and family estrangement

Photo of my parents (in the foreground)

I typically avoid publicly posting my personal writing for a few reasons that I won’t get into (I started writing the reasons, only to have it turn into a missive). On this, I’ve decided to make an exception. If this isn’t the kind of post you expected or wanted, please skip this one. I have more independent commentary coming (hopefully) soon. I wrote this in the middle of the night in one sitting, so some of it may be scrambled.

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I grew up to parents who said little to me about the world, my life, and the people in it. My parents immigrated to Canada from Bulgaria, hoping to provide a better life for my sister and I. I was only a few years old at the time. Neither of my parents spoke English, and both worked entry level, minimum wage jobs to get by. My early years were spent living in a run-down trailer in Yellowknife, NWT, which also happened to be the worst years of my life. 

When I was about 11, my father picked up and left. He went on to start a new life, with a new family, and I never saw him again, though I did hear from him in the form of greeting cards (many children of divorce or an absentee parent are all too familiar with something I call the ‘Hallmark Card Phenomenon’¹). I received a smattering of cards marked by all occasions — birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings. My favourite was the glittery, princess pink fold-out number in which my father signed off with ‘I love you very, very, very much.’ I took the 3 ‘very’s’ as proof of his continued loved for me. It had such an impact on me that I kept it in my sentimental keepsake shoebox, reserved only for my most cherished memories. I still have this card to this day. 

Then the cards stopped coming, ending all communication for good. So we were estranged for 20 years, though not by choice — at least not on my end. To me, his decision to leave us seemed abrupt, but of course as a preteen, I didn’t know any of the workings behind this decision. I just wanted the family back together, however dysfunctional it was. 

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Then two days ago, I found out he died. He was 57 years old. 

And I find myself mourning the loss of my father all over again. 

Somewhere along the way, I accepted the fact that I would likely never speak to him again, but then after learning he was gone for good, I suddenly felt incomplete—unsatisfied that there would be no possibility of getting any sense of closure—that this event, like many others, was completely out of my control and I had no other choice than to accept it. It’s a feeling of helplessness that completely envelops you. I’m not really a huge proponent of getting closure anyway, but part of me still clung to that possibility.

Because my father carved out a new life for him and pushed us (his first family) out of it, there is only so much I will ever know. 

I’m told he died of lung inflammation — I don’t know if it was a gradual process, or if it came suddenly. Maybe it accompanied other illnesses. I likely will never know the details. I do know that he worked in an environment with a lot of dangerous materials and he likely never used protective equipment. I also know he continued his bad habits — alcohol abuse and smoking were a few of his vices he remained devoted to for his entire adult life. He could leave his family, but never his alcohol. (Did he keep up with the abuse, too, I don’t know, and that’s not something I care to speculate on). Some demons will follow you wherever you go.

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I also grew up in a family where information was used as chess pieces — even if it was information I had a right to know. Throughout my entire life, my mother served as the gatekeeper of all information and would yell and scream and act like a petulant child whenever I pushed to get more information about family matters. 

On this she was no different. 

She told me little about my father’s new (and old) life, and selectively handpicked information that would serve her own narrative. 

She told me my father was a perpetual victim, even in his new life he crafted for himself and his new family, complete with a new daughter who I never met and likely will never meet. He worked his way upward and enjoyed a middle to upper class life in the Calgary suburbs. Even with his newfound success, he still allegedly called himself the ‘poor immigrant’ (he has also only paid child support for two years, my mother tells me). 

I know my father did bad things — I’m not discounting them — but I just never got the opportunity to get more answers for myself as an adult. 

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Sometimes I still ask myself what I did wrong — but is there anything an 11-year-old can do that warrants a parent abandoning them? Logically I know the answer is No. But it’s hard to shake, even to this day. And it can be difficult to see others who have stable family relationships. I think to myself how fortunate these people are — they have no idea how good they have it. Sometimes I do feel resentment for others, and that’s something I still have to overcome.

What hurts even more is that I will never be able to attend my father’s service, because I represent his old, shameful life that he long ago abandoned. There’s no way his second wife, now a widow, would allow me to attend. This decision is up to her, who for all this time, pretended that his old family never existed. She was also the same woman, who unbeknownst to me, paid night visits to see my father in our trailer before my mom divorced him.

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As a child I was always embarrassed of my dad. He had wild, frizzy hair and dressed in frumpy, dated clothing. He was rough, hardened, broody, and perpetually smelt of fiberglass resin and cigarettes. He looked and acted nothing like my friends’ dads. I don’t think I can recall one occasion where he smiled (the above picture captures one of the rare occasions he did). He was never involved in my life. He was physically there, but mentally he was gone; he’d drink himself to a stupor on his favourite spot on the couch every night.

So when he left our family to start a new one, I was both relieved and devastated. Relieved to have this person who was clearly suffering out of my life. I didn’t want to bear witness to the suffering any more, but I also felt devastated to lose a parent—to not have been enough for a parent to stay.

My mother also had her own faults, which I won’t detail here, but I will say this: When I reached adulthood I realized that having your parent cook meals for you did not make you a selfish person, nor did asking them to drop you off at a friend’s place or soccer practice. These things were just part of the package of being a parent. They were the bare minimum. I didn’t know any of this, but I know now.

I know that I had two parents who taught me everything I didn’t want to be. 

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I’m 33 years old now. I have a stable, comfortable life, something that I was never afforded as a child. I’ve learned to be fiercely independent and self-reliant. And I carry that attitude with me today. Everything I learned, I learned on my own. Everything I have today is on account of my own desire to be better, to give more, devote more time to acts of service, to love more, and appreciate what I have.

There’s no conclusion to any of this, because the mourning continues. Maybe this post is my own attempt at grasping for some kind of closure. There’s no neat way to package it all up. Families are messy — some messier than others, and experiencing loss is messy. Working through the mess is part of life. All we can do is try to move forward with grace, gratitude, and compassion for ourselves and those around us because we all have our own messes to clean up.

1. Hallmark Card Phenomenon: In which an absentee parent sends cards for every occasion—no matter how trivial. The absentee parent believes doing so alleviates them of all guilt and makes them a worthy parent. Once penance has been paid and they feel good enough about themselves, the cards stop coming.

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