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My Homeless FatherJan 18 '03 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line This is about my life with a homeless/alcoholic father.
This is just one of many story’s of my life with my homeless/alcoholic father. Seems there are so many people who wonder how I could “let” my father live on the streets. Well before I start this story. Know first that I Love my dad. He was the greatest man in the world to me before he became a professional drunk. I have tried numerous times to help, I will admit I’ve done more than I should have. I had allowed him to manipulate money and other resources from me for years. I have since set pretty clear boundaries to help ME cope with it. It is very difficult, but a necessity, for my own sanity. It's hard enough when people say, "What does your dad do" and I'm tempted to say "Oh he's a professional drunk" Instead answering "He's a mechanic" I’m not sure that anyone will read all of this mumbo jumbo, but if you’re bored, pull up a chair and have a seat with me and read on. I drove to the East side of town on December 22, 2001. I had received a call from my father at around 9:00. I could tell in his voice that he was tired and drunk. I could only assume due to the recent weather that he was probably also cold. He had admitted to me that he had been sleeping in his old van. Pity and overwhelming sadness usually over shadows any fear I may have at driving to “that side” of town late at night. I just can’t let my Father be out in the cold, especially around the Holiday’s. I hate it that he lives this life at all. He chooses this. I have attempted so many times to get him on his feet, offer him and place to stay. I even paid for him to live in a boarding house for a couple of months to try and get him on his feet. He’ll “accept help” when it’s cold. Then it seems to never fail, as soon as warmer weather approaches, he disappears. He wasn’t where he said he would be. (As usual) His van was there, but no “him”. A slight irritation starts to run through me, because it is I who am doing him a favor here, you would think the least he could do is be where he said he would be. I drive to a bar across the street where I was certain to find him. There he sat. My Pop. Worn, drunk and filthy. As filthy as any homeless person is after weeks with out bathing. A surprised look on his face, apparently not remembering the conversation we had an hour earlier. Instead he greets me “How’s my MissElaineious doin’?” We hug. The pungent odor of sweat and alcohol reaches my nostrils and I gently pull away. “Hey Pop, how ya doin’?” I say. Then wanting to refresh his memory “Ya still want to come home with me?” He looks at me for a second “Well sure hon, I’d love that, that’d be nice” Then suddenly side tracked “Oh… hey, HEY JOE…come ‘ere and meet the apple of my eye” A man who I can only assume is "Joe" walks over to greet me. We exchange pleasantries, as I have an always do when meeting one of my fathers buddies. I treat people with respect who give me respect. I let him know we were just leaving Dad chimes in “oh, yea, hon, uh, I just need to finish this beer real quick” Which is fine, no need to waste. We finally walk out together. Driving on the way back, the smell of my father is overwhelming. I start to gag. I crack the window and pretend I am just wanting to smoke a cigarette (I don’t ever smoke in my car, I’m not a heavy smoker) but I had to do something. It’s horrible. Smelly alcohol breath. Sweaty, foot and butt funk! His coat is black from grease, dirt, grime. I doubt it has ever been washed. It smells… just… awful. Not to carry on here, but you ever see a homeless man on the street? Imagine picking him up, right there…take him home. Have him sit in your car on the hour drive home and see how much you like it, I’m not a prude, trust me…the dude stinks! Finally we are home. We step inside. Dad compliments my home. He always does. He sits on the couch and starts to take off his shoe’s. Which is even worse than I ever could have thought. His feet look nasty horrible and pruiny. The thought that comes to my mind is having him walk on my floor. What is he has athletes foot or something? I hate this! I hate having to have someone I love IN MY HOME and not want them there. To worry about where he has been. Every part of him. His arms, what nasty table have they rested on? His feet-Eeewww (need I say more) His Butt-What nasty toilet has it sat on to do it’s thing with? Thoughts of diseases and funk start to run wild in my head. What’s sad is this is my Father. And funky as he is I have respect for him. I would never hurt his feelings. It may sound funny, or worse, I may sound like some total germ freak. I’m not, I like a clean house, but I’m not extreme about it. So I switch gears from thinking of shoving him in the shower, or demanding he get in as I will my older son. I instead decide to try bribery. I yell from the kitchen “Hey dad, ya hungry?” he replies “uh, no… Hon, not right now, it’s so late, you don’t have to make something special, maybe I’ll eat later” Sh*t! So back into the front room I sit on the far end of the room, the smell is nauseating. We watch a little T.V. my mind constantly working, trying to think of a way to get him in the shower and out of those nasty funk-a** clothes. Light Bulb! “Hey dad I was thinking about making a pizza, does that sound good” I then suggest that he hop in the shower while it’s baking and when he is done it’ll be ready. He seemed to go for that with out much reluctance. I gave him some old sweat pants (he’s not a big man) and a big floppy t-shirt and insist he let me wash his clothes real quick while he’s in there. With in an hour or so we were all set for the night. Dad had his bellyful, his body cleaned, and nice fresh sheets and blankets on the futon in the front room so he could get a good nights sleep. As I walk to my bedroom I notice “hiding” in his shoe…a lone bottle of Vodka. Waiting for it’s owner to pick it up for another fix. I wake up the next morning to find Dad has moved from the Futon to the Floor. Now your first thought might be that Futon’s aren’t very comfortable and that you can’t blame him…but that’s not it. No matter where I live, what bed you give him, doesn’t matter what time of year. He always sleeps on the floor, in a fetal position, with his coat draped over him. This is a position I know his body has become accustom to. In my thinking a nice soft bed or couch would be nice. That is what I am accustom to. He prefers the floor. We wake the next morning and talk over breakfast about our plans to visit with his mother that day. She usually has a Christmas dinner a couple of days before Christmas so that the family can visit with their “families” on Christmas day. We had a wonderful day visiting with Grandma. She makes the best apple pie in the world. Dad ate like he hasn’t eaten in a week. Grandma seems happy to watch him eating. She always loves to see her son clean and sober, as we all are. On the drive home he begins to ponder the “thing he has to get done today” He tells me that he need to go meet up with someone, for something and asks if It would be ok If on the way back if I could drop him off at his Van and he’d drive back over that evening. I humor him and agree. But not before telling him that I didn’t want any calls like last night asking me to come get him. He says he won’t. Dad never showed up. I spent that night cleaning and disinfecting the house. Maybe it was therapeutic for me. I was a upset, but somewhat expected it. I went to bed hoping that he would be o.k. The phone rang at 4:00 in the morning. It’s Dad. Telling me that he is o.k. but that “someone caught his van on fire”. He lost what little bit of everything he owned but woke up in time to save himself. Could I come and get him. Of course I went. Sobbing the whole way. I was so thankful that he was o.k. But knew that he probably had fallen asleep with a cigarette or something like that, causing the fire. Here it was Christmas Eve. Dad had even lost the new clothes my Aunts had gotten him for Christmas. He was waiting at the same bar I had picked him up at the previous night (they owners have a place just above it) and he was even with out a coat. Now at this point you would think I would feel nothing but pity, right? Wrong. I was angry. I ignored his insistence that someone had caught the Van on fire, but caught him in the lie later when he told me he had some sort of heater set up in there. I was SO FURIOUS! If he had just stayed at my house! I don’t care if he drinks, that’s not the issue. He wanted to get trashed and not have to answer to anyone. He had almost killed him self! Here it was Christmas Eve and instead of spending the day preparing for Christmas I was out buying clothes and other toiletries for Dad. Spending money I didn’t really have. I didn’t speak to him much, but tried to take things in stride and move on with the next days plan. I was even more upset that my brother (who has a very strained relationship with dad anyway) had invited Dad to come over that year for dinner. I had convinced him dad was doing better. It meant so much to me for me to have them in the same place on Christmas day. This was very special to everyone. I didn’t want my brother to know all of the stress Dad had put me through so I said nothing. I also didn’t want him to know that Dad hadn’t changed a bit. That I had lied to him when I told him Dad was doing so much better. That I hadn’t changed a bit either and was still helping Dad get out of a bind when he was desperate. I hid the fact that it infuriates me that I have to take care of my Dad when it is HE who should be taking care of me. Offering me advise. Letting me cry on his shoulder, not the reverse. I ended up taking Dad back over to my Grandmothers on Christmas day so that he could stay there for awhile. “Get back on his feet” He stayed about a month and again, was gone. He sold all of the new clothes we had gotten him. Even sold the Coat and Boots I bought him as a Christmas gift. This was the last time I was to help my father in any way. This was the end. I had to decide what it was I needed from him. That was to call me weekly and let me know where and how he was. He has stuck to it. I love him. But I have to Love myself enough to let him go.  |
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