A letter with no address
To my father, and all fathers
It was a Friday night after 8PM, I was playing League of Legends with a former classmate from elementary school with whom I reconnected that evening. We were totally losing, but I was motivated to turn the game in our favor, so I leaned in to concentrate.
The right side of my headphones was slightly off; I could hear the lights switching on in the staircase behind me. It happened before, I thought nothing of it and tried to regain my focus but noticed the familiar sound of our floor squeaking as they tried not to give in under heavy weight.
I peeked over my shoulder and saw my stepfather entering my room having his shoulders closer together than I’ve ever seen them. His eyes were red and misty.
I immediately stood up, stepped in front of him and we hugged each other so firmly only men can. His voice was shaking as he whispered:
He’s gone.
I have no recollection of what exactly happened in the next twenty minutes as we drove to the hospice. When I entered the hallway, it was dim and eerily still. In my confusion walking past my family, I briefly checked on my sister who was being held by our mother, sobbing together.
My footsteps echoed between the tiles as I got closer to my grandmother standing like the only cliff against crushing waves holding her ground firmly, next to the door of his only son’s room. We held each other for a long minute and voiced our condolences, but my focus was ahead of me, already in the room behind her.
Upon entering, I instantly noticed a lit candle and eternal tranquility that enabled me to escape the constraints of time to sit with my father for one last time on this plane.
This all happened a tad over 15 years ago, before my 18th birthday. Looking back, everything happened relatively quickly, his illness prevailing over him within four short months, although he fought like hell.
Living through those months was tough enough to prepare me for the worst-case scenario, consciously. I was there with him almost every day as his body slowly stopped being able to keep up with the fight.
I thought that was enough, not realizing at the time how immature I was emotionally and that I didn’t fully comprehend just yet, how I wouldn’t be able to share my life with him.
More than a decade later, I became a father and called my stepfather to wish him a happy Father’s Day. He returned the wishes and we cherished our connection. It felt lovely yet emotionally incomplete.
You see, I’m fortunate enough that I was raised by two great fathers who are the exact opposite of each other.
My stepfather, being the biggest business mastermind I’ve ever known, turned everything he touched into financial success.
My father, on the other hand, was a true artist, who channeled his emotions into art, allowing the world to connect to his soul as a jazz saxophonist.
Music
The irony is that I never heard him play; we both thought we’d have time, and I wasn’t into jazz back then. On the flipside, he offered me a glimpse into all the varieties of music he thought was cool.
While we travelled through the country, we kept showing each other music. He was the cassette and CD type, I brought the MP3s. Rest assured that I matured in this area as well, listening to records with my child already on my parents’ record player.
Sometimes he mentioned gently that he thought I could listen to something more complex than hip-hop, but I argued that hip-hop can be just as complex as poetry if not more sometimes. I wasn’t ready to understand why Eddie Vedder was a genius.
The thing I miss the most is that I remember he loved Nirvana, and we couldn’t yet connect on loving them together. When I first heard grunge, I thought it was random noises recorded one after another, with the occasional men’s screams thrown in.
Then in my early 20s I got properly mad and didn’t know how to let go of my feelings and started to look for something unsophisticated to play as background music that would fit my anger. Nirvana, it was. Like have you ever heard Tourette’s (Live at Reading)1? Yeah, don’t play it if you don’t want to listen to Kurt screaming at the top of his lungs accompanied by distorted guitar and visceral drum play for 1m:52s. I warned you.
The worst part, however, is that my all-time favorite record became Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York album, with the song Lake of Fire staying closest to my heart. Another irony: this is the only album where you can hear this song, since it’s a cover. I miss having this type of cheeky conversation with my father while having this LP playing in the background, damn.
Conversations
Another part of him I miss dearly is his capacity to listen and hold space without ever being trained to. I’ve heard rumors of men being unable to have properly emotional conversations and I just never understood that for a long while, as we were constantly conversing.
He was my go-to person when something was pulling heavily on my shoulders, and I just couldn’t figure out a way forward. Never in our time together did I see him belittle any of my struggles, or did I feel dismissed. He always found a way to listen and guide me gently.
Business books would categorize him as a Laissez-faire type of leader because he never interfered or demanded anything of me. Was it the best type of fatherhood? Probably not. Did I learn to figure it out on my own? You bet. And he always remained within arm’s reach to provide support when I needed it.
On a gloomy autumn afternoon, I was riding shotgun and told him I was thinking about quitting basketball for good after 8 years of a dry spell, not winning one single medal despite putting in the work.
He told me he got it and that it must be frustrating given the nature of team sports but also asked me this: “What would happen if you tried one last time?”. Listening to him and my intuition, I didn’t quit that autumn.
Next spring I won my first ever gold medal with a team that was not supposed to win. It also meant the one and only gold medal in my high school’s 175‑year history in the men’s league. For my continuous efforts in nurturing the team as its leader, I received the sport’s award at the high school graduation ceremony.
You know already that I sat beside his bed 2 months earlier. Even though he couldn’t witness it, he made it all possible for me with a single question. I believe he was a great coach without ever being one.
Remembrance
My father never wanted me to become anything besides happy and healthy. He never coerced me in any direction.
Instead, he offered me the choice to think with intention and to become empathetic toward others. His presence made it possible for me to become truly myself.
Time does paint a prettier picture, and I’m aware of his flaws; he had many. At the end, his inability to ride the waves of his emotions shattered him; he became too attached.
A man at his best can feel and channel all his emotions without becoming destructive, and I believe these are virtues that we should work toward.
Both being a father and being a professional coach rest on one question: how well can I quiet my ego? I couldn’t have asked myself this question 15 years ago, but the seed of it was planted way before.
I did say my goodbyes when I sat by his bed, but those goodbyes were said by someone who felt alone, feeling afraid of what he was going to do without his father. Little did I know that he had already done the work he was destined to do. Allowing me to grow bigger than him and letting go of his ego to witness his son building on the foundations he laid.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad, your presence was felt and won’t ever be forgotten.
“And now I rub my eyes, for he has returned
Seems my preconceptions are what should have been burned
For he still smiles, and he’s still strong
Nothing’s changed but the surrounding bullshit that has grown
And now he’s home, and we’re laughing like we always did
My same old, same old friend”2
Full disclosure:
Grief might require therapy instead of coaching for those experiencing severe depression, inability to function, or traumatic grief. It’s the coach’s responsibility to respect professional boundaries, not yours. Coaches are not allowed to diagnose; only licensed therapists can, but we can see the signs and are obliged to state clearly that the support of a therapist might be needed. But please do reach out. If you need support, don’t stay alone with grief.
References:
*1: Nirvana - Tourette’s (Live at Reading 1992)
*2: Pearl Jam - Off He Goes
This essay hit home for me. We always assume there will be more time, more conversations, more ordinary days. Losing a parent teaches you how fragile that assumption really is. Your description of hospice especially resonated with me. In my experience, it is such a surreal place where time somehow speeds up and slows down all at once. You’re grieving someone who is still here, and denial and love seem to exist side by side. Thank you for sharing such a tender memory of your father and for reminding us that the people we love are not promised to us forever. Happy Father’s Day. ❤️
This is a very vulnerable and heartfelt piece of writing, Csaba. Thank you for sharing it. I especially loved the line, "Another part of him I miss dearly is his capacity to listen and hold space without ever being trained to." I think that's such a special quality and experience it as a young person.