posted by Nicki on Uncategorized

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Twitter has a horrible habit of poking at things I’d rather not think about. Sometimes it’s mundane, like the fact I should shovel my walk since it finished snowing on Monday or that I need to pick up X,Y,Z from the store. Other times I get all riled because it’s my way or the highway (no it’s not but I have my days) and then there are days where opening twitter is like pouring salt on an gaping wound.

So why is twitter in my bad books this week? My dad.

My dad, who no one hears about because he died eight years ago.

For whatever reason people on twitter have been posting about their dad’s. Charming stories about how close they are/were to their Pops, that time that their dad did the best thing ever for them, how their dads always had the answer. All these wonderful sentimental stories.

Dad stories always make me think of yellow winter jackets.

My dad was a good man, not great, he was an alcoholic, abusive throughout most of my early childhood. When he was sober he was wonderful, which he was after my parent’s divorced. That lasted eight years. By the time I was 20 he was drinking again and it steadily got worse. It was the secret that I ignored because I’d put my time in already and my step-mom couldn’t and didn’t want to burden anyone with. By the time I was 23 he was a mess and they were divorcing.

I spent endless hours trying to keep him in an apartment, keep him employed, working to pay storage fees for his belongings and shuttling him to treatment programs all around the province when everything fell apart (monthly usually). Eventually, his money ran out. I was a broke, finishing up my diploma and living with my mom again. My dad ended up on the street.

In October he went AWOL. I couldn’t find him. I called hospitals, friends, anyone I could think of before calling the police to file a missing person’s report. What a great thing to have to do. The police were helpful, as in they took the information but told me there wasn’t much they could do. Awesome. A week later, I got a phone call from my uncle, a nurse, who had been contacted by my step-mom. My dad was at the Rockyview hospital.

I called Evan and we raced there, we got their just in time since he’d managed to get released. I will never forget driving up and watching him saunter down the road towards us in a t-shirt and jeans. It was -15. So cold and he was just sucking it up, pretending it was no big deal.

We took him to Value Village and with what little money we had got him some warmer clothes including a bright yellow winter jacket. He meticulously kept that jacket clean, which was a challenge since he slept in it at the Drop in Centre so no one would steal it.

The months after that were a blur of trying to find him, usually at library; get him cigarettes so he wouldn’t have to smoke butts and makng sure he had clean laundry. He would come meet me at work for lunches a few times a week and we’d get kicked out of Dome Tower downtown by security even though I worked there because we both looked homeless (my job had me sorting files and my attire was strictly jeans and hoodies at the time). I came to expect the flash of yellow just before he showed up. An early warning system so I could get my game face on.

At Christmas we put him up in a hotel. My sister finally forgave him for a lifetime of bad feelings and my mom sent him Christmas dinner. He was alone while we were with other family but he was just happy to be somewhere with a shower and have a place to sleep where he wasn’t woken by the snoring of hundreds of other men.

In June, my dad finally had a bit of good luck. My grandmother had died and the money she left him came through. We were finally able to get him into an apartment and out of the shelter. It lasted one month.

On July 9th, 2003 that missing person’s finally report paid off. The police came to my mother’s door and told me my dad had a heart attack and had been discovered in his apartment after four days. The kicker? Two days before he died my dad and I argued and I told him I hated him and wished he would die. Regrets, I have a few…

The rest of the summer was a whirlwind. I planned a memorial service, moved him out of that apartment we’d just finished moving him into, sold off what we could, donated the rest oh and did I mention Evan and I got married on August 9th? I didn’t have time to think until Fall when I started seeing a flash of yellow everywhere I went.

Eight long years later I still see that yellow jacket everywhere I go. My dad was damaged, horrible at times, hilarious at others. He was sad, lonely and for a time he was one of the city’s unseen homeless. He never saw me get married, finish my degree and he never got to bounce a grandbaby on his knee. Worse he never stopped drinking. But as much of a pain in the ass he was he was my dad and I miss him so much.