This morning LinkedIn sent me the usual list of people that its algorithms thought I should connect with. At the bottom of the list of friends and former colleagues was Dad. Ghosts are a well known hazard of the internet. Dad’s LinkedIn profile had never been completed; he had listed his position as Nonprofit Organization Management, but the rest of the profile was empty. A career that included degrees from two Ivy League schools, and years in business and missions, summed up by a blank page.
The source of that blank page was, I think, that Dad was depressed. That’s not an official diagnosis. Dad would never have wanted me to tell you that, it wasn’t something he would ever admit to, or seek help for. Unofficially, however, I have compared notes with my siblings, and my mom, and the picture that has emerged is of a man who didn’t feel good enough, and who was frequently a little out of synch with the world, and those around him. At reunions, you knew to look for Dad in the other room, by himself. I think depression robbed Dad of a lot of energy, so that he had less to spend on other people, or himself.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to the conclusion that energy is the currency of adult life. We complain about not having enough time, but really it’s energy most of us are lacking. We all know, and secretly loathe a little, one or two people who always seems to be able to take on new creative projects, keep their homes clean, and work full days. The rest of us finally get the kids to bed, think about that thing we really want to do, and then collapse on the couch instead. If our fairy godmother showed up at that moment, and magically granted us an extra two hours to do whatever we wanted, we wouldn’t be able to do anything with it.
I’ve only experienced depression vicariously, so it is a subject I am blessedly unqualified to speak on, except to say that it is a destroyer of energy, and a sapper of will. At the time of his death, Dad considered his career to be paused, on hold. He would have loved to complete that LinkedIn profile, and move forward, but it never happened. Undoubtedly there were other factors at work as well, but I think it was chiefly depression that held him back.
I’m still working through the ways in which all of the above matters, but there’s one lesson that has been standing out to me in stark relief. I’m mourning not only the loss of my father, but also the loss of who he could have become. That’s an obvious fact, it’s why the deaths of the young hurt more than then deaths of the old, but depression puts a new spin on it. I don’t know exactly what Dad would have been like, had he not been depressed, but I always assumed I would eventually find out. The fact that I’m not going to, in the here and now, needs to be acknowledged. I’m beginning to think that the grieving process is one of constantly digging through your emotions to find all the ways that you are sad, and giving each the time it deserves.
The Empty Highway 
Well put, Mattias. Grief, and I think in a unique way, grieving the loss of a parent, is grieving the loss of what was and the loss of what will never be. It’s telling that mom’s first words when Dad died were a thought along the lines of him now being full of joy and wishing we could have known him that way (can’t remember the exact words). His physical illness was short but emotional illness much longer. I think it’s a testament to him and what was important to him, that we all know how much he loved us even if he couldn’t always be fully present.
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You’ve got a good grasp of this stuff, Em. You should be a therapist or something.
And you’re so right, Dad’s love for us was never in doubt. He’s my role model in sending the right message to my kids, no matter what the current circumstance might be.
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I just read the above comments and wish I hadn’t, as they present another side of Tim that I never knew. Of course, you were his children and knew him so much better than I did. I don’t know how my other cousins will feel when I say this, but Tim was always the one I related to the most. He always made an effort to keep in touch, and was always so interested in what was going on, not only in my life, but always asked questions about Paul and Shanda’s lives. We never doubted how much he cared for us. Maybe it was a front, but he was always so upbeat. Never have I been so happy to see someone in my life as when I saw him standing at the airport in Moscow. Up until then, we all 3 felt a little uneasy, but seeing Tim made me feel that everything was all right and we were safe. He had told me for many years, that when he retired that he and I were going to go to the courthouse in Brookville and trace our Sutter family roots. That was always important to him Of course, now with the internet and ancestry.com, that is no longer necessary. I hope this will give you some perspective on what a distant family member saw in Tim.
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Sandi, you are right not to doubt that Dad cared for you, and I know he enjoyed the time he spent with you. Family was very important to him. He may not have always been as upbeat as what you saw, but I think at heart Dad was always an optimist, and depression never beat that out of him.
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Mourning the might have been… I like how you worded that. I think it’s a great expression that helps get to the core of how the heart begins to process loss–especially the loss of a loved one who also cared for you. I understand it completely. It is also a process that I went through when acknowledging my own grief.
As far as ghosts are concerned–these visitations–mine are thankfully kinder than Dickens imagined them to be. But I do still see my Dad from time to time. I just don’t know how much justice my memory gives to the man who used to walk next to me.
Depression is a little more personal for me. Sometimes it seems like a battle that will take a lifetime to defeat. But instead of going into those details, I will say that I understand how difficult it is to discover something after the fact–after someone you love passes on–when you cannot do a damn thing about it–it creates it’s own pit helplessness. The trick, as you say, is to recognize it for what it really is and face the emotion that is there.
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great comments Matt, I no the pain, the grief, and even after 26 years is still comes up- just in different ways
Diane (mom in law)
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