My Father and My Gut

(from a few weeks ago)

I can write about what I’ve already survived. That’s not the hard part. There is a pride in obstacles overcome. The hard part is the uncertainty, no worse- vulnerability, in the right now.

A few weeks ago I decided I was going to meet my biological father for the first time. In the past he has made sudden appearances in my life (via the internet) espousing great tales of fatherly love and desperate searching. But there was never any action to back up that emotion. And, needless to say, trust didn’t come easily. Still I’ve wanted to meet him and I’ve always been afraid he would die before I got the chance. I’d planned a road trip with a friend and it seemed the perfect opportunity. We could swing by to meet him in Vegas, I had a friend I trusted who could go with me, a car I could leave in and he would have no information about where I live. It was decided.

Now 5 months in Al-Anon has shone some light on my instinct to do hard things in isolation. So this time I let people know what I was up to. I asked Morgan to come with me. I waited to talk to my therapist and worked out a safety plan with hir for while I was away. I was taking care of myself.

In the next few days I emailed him. Then called. Twice. Asked him and his family to meet me for dinner on Monday night, 10 days away. And when I left for my road trip I still hadn’t heard from him. I checked my email compulsively. There was nothing. After all his grand statements, and wish-it-coulda’s, after feeling shamed about not being able to move forward and have a relationship with him. After thinking, shit, maybe it really was me…he didn’t even call back. I had told all these people I was going to meet him and he didn’t even call back. I was humiliated.

But I was determined to have fun on my trip. Determined to shove it aside and jump waves in the ocean, eat roadside Taco Bell and explore the desert. And I did all those things. I loved my life, I laughed with friends. But my disappointment, my hurt, was too deep to be articulated. And when I tried it was always with a steady, firm, voice that tried to evoke some illusion of control over the situation while tears slid silently over my face.

Eating had become more difficult but I chalked it up to bad travel food and the desert heat. My appetite had slimed and eventually it got to the point where I could feel my stomach opening and an intensely dull ache would tare through my entire body. It would wind through my ribs and up my back and leave me momentarily immobile.

And then there was the email, 10:20pm Sunday night: “Hi Blyth. Been really ill and just got out of the hospital Saturday. I would enjoy seeing you. Josh my 14 year old has a baseball playoff game at 7:30 on Monday. It's on the northwest side of town. Perhaps you could stop by the field and say hello. Everyone should be there. Let me know. Josh's team won the 14 and under division. Great to hear from you”.

There were tears and no words. I had resigned myself to not hearing from him. Earlier that day Morgan and I had booked a hotel outside Sedona. And then there he was. In the final hour. My thought process went something like this: ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!! Fuck him. Fuck me for trying. I should have seen this coming. I can’t believe this. What was I thinking? A baseball game?! What if he’s really sick? What if he’s dying? What if this is my last chance to meet him? Maybe I should cancel the hotel. Maybe I need to go. What would Morgan say? I shouldn’t let him change my plans like that. He hasn’t done anything to deserve that sort of accommodation. A baseball game?! It’s not worth it. I deserve better. I’m not going.

The next day I talk about it a little and can no longer consume anything without pain. A few bites at both lunch and dinner and I burst into tears.

Sedona was really beautiful. The rocks were red, air was cool and it almost distracted me from thoughts of my father and the fact I could no longer eat normally. Morgan and I splurged, got a hotel and the promise of a free breakfast in the morning. 6:45am and we walked into a room with a counter full of cereal, toast, bagels, juice, waffles. I splurged on juice. Apple and orange. I slid into a plastic covered booth, took a sip and lost my breath as the ache pushed through me. And I sobbed. For my body. For my lack of control.

Last Saturday I ate my first full meal in over two weeks. The diagnoses: a not quite ulcer that will take at least a month to heal and was brought on by too much stress and Aleeve. And shame. Shame at not being better at this yet. These hard knocks and disappointments. Shame at not taking better care of myself. Shame at realizing that, at least subconsciously, someone else has control over my body. Anger for being here again. For not being able to nourish myself. Shame that it’s all so public. This disappointment, this illness, this failure. My failure and my fathers. It’s embarrassing. I am reminded of it every second. My body is singing it. Screaming it rather. And while it is getting better, I have not yet survived this. And that is terrifying.