I do not want to be covetous, so I am genuinely happy for everyone who has fathers to celebrate and commemorate on this day. I have a close relationship with my father.
I had to go out of my way to build that from scratch when I was in my late twenties. Some of this is not the fault of my lesbian mother. None of this is really the fault of her partner. Some fault lies in my own reaction to things growing up, my curling up and withdrawing from what was such a confusing arrangement of custodian figures and role models and parental units that I had to protect and shield, when I was still a child who just wanted to be protected and shielded.
And I have one now, so I cherish him and love him. Instead of narratives about being taught how to pitch a baseball or pep talks to stick up for myself against bullies, I have maudlin and pathetic stories about being a teenage freak, getting beat up, having nobody to turn to and defend me, feeling abandoned and alone, finding solace in male prostitution and hookups with lecherous gay men.
The time had passed for me to learn how to be a man. Lost were the rites of passage or masculine guidance. I had arrived at my late twenties not knowing how to be a man, and making it up as I went along, replacing the missing father with the collective nurturing but ultimately unhealthy guidance of the gay male community.
I had cancer in January I ignored the pain as the growth hardened and worsened, convincing myself nothing was wrong. I had no reason to believe I had cancer. The thought never crossed my mind. My tumour markers were hundreds of times the normal rate and the growth was likely to metastasise. He said he had to operate immediately.
