Onward
I stood on this same spot, on this same dock, on this same muck-filled river, when I finally drummed up the courage to tell my father that my wife had been having an affair. The words squeaked out in a wavering voice while tears streamed down my cheeks.
That was twenty-one months ago.
So much—too much, really—has changed since then.
For starters, it’s about 60 degrees cooler today than it was that warm July afternoon in 2022. As luck would have it, a spontaneous winter storm has worked its way to Northern Michigan, bringing steady snowfall buffeted by strong gusts of freezing wind. It manages to cut through the heavy winter jacket I hesitated to pack for this quick weekend trip.
Other things have changed during these emotionally charged, stressful twenty-one months. My wife and I reconciled after a “brief emotional” affair, moved our family to Colorado, and went under contract on a house. Two days later, the “emotional” affair turned out to be much more and “brief” was quite certainly a misnomer.
We terminated the contract on the house and ended up moving into separate rental homes a few minutes apart.
The kids started new schools in a new state shortly thereafter.
After a few failed settlement negotiations, we filed for divorce.
And we’re finally at the end of that process.
To say the past two years have been challenging is like calling Andre the Giant big boned or Warren Buffett fairly wealthy. While directionally accurate, it’s wildly understated.
I’ve sought regular help from a wonderful therapist to help me through this ordeal. Her extraordinary wisdom is complemented by a once-daily antidepressant to keep me as level as possible, though I still fall remarkably short at times.
I couldn’t sleep and lost interest in food those first few months, losing thirty pounds by the end of the year.
My cravings—and those 30 pounds—reunited with me just as quickly as they vanished, aided by frequent binging on comfort food, candy, ice cream, and buttery popcorn—frequently haphazardly combined in the same bowl.
Sleep has remained elusive.
Many of my days have been consumed by attorneys and a broken judicial process that seems comical. Right up until you have to face it. Motions to review, rulings to digest, strategies to discuss, depositions, judges with vast control over your livelihood, discovery, and on and on.
As a result, I’ve fallen behind—way behind—at work. Once proud of keeping my inbox clean, I now have over four thousand unread emails, none of which I plan to review and respond to. (Thank you, Microsoft, for the Mark All as Read feature.) I’ve missed meetings and failed to return calls. And my work travel is now dictated by a custody calendar.
All the household duties have landed squarely on my shoulders.
I’ve learned how to cook. It started with heating frozen pot pies in the oven and whipping up an occasional batch of pancakes. I’ve now proudly graduated to quesadillas, sloppy joes, and a couple of recipes in the Instant Pot. The kids tell me more than half of it is edible.
I’ve also started doing laundry. I guess I’m proficient at it, but I’m far from perfect. I still shrink the occasional garment and sometimes throw a new bright shirt in with the whites and tint everything. Hell, I even forget to add detergent or turn the machine on occasionally. And I’ve given up hope on getting all the matching pairs of socks back from the soulless dryer.
Somehow when you separate from your spouse, you automatically get entrusted with all the interior design decision making, too. My house looks like it was decorated by a teenager, complete with mismatched colors and materials throughout. There are two desks in my office and a third in the master bedroom. None of them match. All the “art” hanging on my walls is something the kids drew or photographed. And there’s at least one piece of Michigan Football memorabilia in each room.
You know those areas in your house where the builders placed a spotlight overhead? Those places where you display fine works of art, a Faberge egg, or a photo of your grandpa on the wing of a bomber in World War II? My spotlights shine down on Lego sets that I put together with the kids. The current feature is an underwater Ninjago piece, circa 2024.
The whole thing screams Struggling Single Dad.
— — —
Something else has changed since that visit to the dock in 2022.
Dad isn’t with me this time. He’s here at the cabin, but he doesn’t take too many jaunts in the snow now. Actually, he doesn’t take too many jaunts at all these days, regardless of the weather.
Dad’s been slowing down for the past few years and has had his share of medical scares. He had one last month when he thought he had a stroke. After five days in the hospital, the doctors finally affixed a label to his decline: Parkinson’s Disease.
Though it was just diagnosed, I suspect Dad’s bout with Parkinson’s has been going on for more than a little while. His conversational skills and attention span have been deteriorating noticeably and he often repeats what you say to him. When I wished him Happy Birthday earlier this year, he responded with “Happy Birthday to you also!” He struggles with words and often changes his mind a couple of times before arriving at the final answer. “Yes! No. Yes! YES!”
When we had our makeshift confession on the dock those twenty-one months ago, Dad didn’t have much to say. He gave me a big hug and said, “I love you.” No advice, no wisdom, no big speech. Yet somehow, he delivered exactly what I needed.
During a trip to the cabin earlier this year, I had passed by Dad’s bedroom and saw him standing there putting on suspenders. I observed him struggling to get them connected to the waistline on his pants. He was using his right hand and it was shaking—to borrow one of his favorite adages—like a bear shitting razor blades. Each time he pulled the suspenders close, his hand shook violently. I nonchalantly entered the room and helped him, trying to draw as little attention to the issue as I could.
“I’ve got it, Dad. Don’t worry. Does this thing with your hand happen very often?”
“No. Yes. YES!” he replied, as I made a mental note.
That same weekend, my daughter, nephew, and I decided to remodel the sunroom. It was a task that was about 15 years overdue. We ripped up the 30-year-old carpet and laid down new vinyl plank flooring. We also painted the walls and reorganized the furniture to make the space bigger. Proud of our efforts, we invited Dad and his partner, Carol, to check it out.
They walked into the room and immediately left.
You would’ve thought I took a dump on the table, covered it with a fancy glass enclosure, and charged a five-dollar admission to admire it.
They quietly conferred with each other and the parts I picked up weren’t promising.
“I hate it!”
“Why would you put the couch over there? You’re supposed to look out at the water, not at a wall!”
“Are you sure Andy went to college?”
Overly anxious, Dad demanded we put the room back together the way it was. My nephew and I had to move the old artificial Christmas tree back into the front window and put the 1980’s octagonal card table back in the center of the room.
There’s a significant aversion to change and new things at this point in Dad’s life.
Most of the time, anyway.
Last Spring, Dad bought a new pontoon boat and launched it when the weather warmed. It’s a new Sea Doo model that pushes a bunch of horsepower through a jet propulsion system, allowing for quick takeoffs and turning on a dime. It’s also the smallest model they sell. At 13 feet in length, it gives off the aura of a waterborne Smart Car. It has a max weight capacity of 550 pounds (or you, me, and a 6-pack of PBR). I guess it seats three rather smallish people somewhat comfortably, but someone’s sitting on the floor.
Dad and I took it out for a ride last Summer. He was showing me how you clean out the engine after going through seaweed beds in the river. You push a button on the jet ski handlebar, turn off the power, push another button, then turn the key back on. It’s about three steps too complicated for me, but I feigned interest as he went through the motions.
Then, without any warning, we both flew backwards as the pontoon accelerated upward like a budget-friendly rocket bound for space. Thankfully, Dad landed squarely in the captain’s seat while I cartwheeled gracelessly backwards before getting a grip on a railing. I pulled myself back toward the controls and yanked the kill switch as calm settled back over the sleepy river.
Dad had a surprised look on his face—much like the look one has when they’re the last to find out they were in an open marriage—and we both wondered the same thought. Why in the hell does an 80-year-old have this thing?!
— — —
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Sunday mornings at the cabin have historically consisted of several variations of Dad attempting to wake me up to go to church. He’d start out politely, asking me to wake up and get dressed. On the second pass a few minutes later, he’d become a little more aggressive, urging me to get my “feet on the floor” because it was “daylight in the swamp!” After that effort failed, he’d come back with some cold water and pour it on my head out of a Dixie cup. (If I wasn’t already hiding, that is. You tend to learn your lesson on the cold water fairly quickly.)
This Sunday, Dad and I are up and at ’em and getting ready for mass. We attempt to rouse my older brother and nephew from their slumbers to join us. It’s after nine o’clock; even with the clocks turning ahead an hour overnight, it doesn’t feel too early.
After a few attempts at waking my brother and being told where to go and how to get there in a most unchurchlike manner, I concede.
My nephew’s not going to join us either, so it’s just Dad and me again.
The winter storm has left a fair amount of snow and ice on the country backroads, so we take our time driving over the hills and around the turns on the way to church. Between the driving and slowly walking Dad into mass, we enter the cathedral a few minutes late at 10:06. And everyone notices, because it’s one of those churches where the main door opens directly to the congregation. Heads whip back when we open it and let all the cold air inside.
We shuffle to some open seats at the back, sit through a reading, and then go through the prayers and communion rituals. Stand, sit, kneel. Up. Down. Up. Down. Repeat.
This priest is flying. He’s a younger guy and he seems to share my excitement for the donuts and coffee awaiting us in the hall right after mass.
In just twenty-two minutes, Dad and I are headed out the door again, where we tell the bulletin peddlers to have a great week before entering the arctic in search of our vehicle.
It’s the quickest—and best—mass I’ve ever attended.
Dad starts fumbling through the weekly bulletin on the drive back to the cabin and exclaims, “No shit!”
I look over and see him grinning mischievously.
“No wonder that mass felt so short. It started at nine thirty! They must’ve moved it up a half hour.”
We both get a hearty laugh and engage in small talk on the way back to the cabin. After a short while, I summon the courage to address the elephant in the room.
“So how do you feel about your diagnosis, Dad?”
“Good!” he quickly replies.
I look over at him while waiting for the second, third, and final answers, but they don’t come. I can see he’s not even thinking about his response, satisfied with what he’s already offered.
“Good? You feel good about it?”
In the face of a degenerative disease that will continue to eat away relentlessly and unapologetically at his mental and physical capabilities, it’s difficult for me to grasp any sort of positive response.
“Yeah! It’s good to understand what it is, and we can work with it now,” he replies.
The 81-year-old retired car salesman next to me who dropped out of community college just put on a Master Class in acceptance and gratitude.
Dad’s been served a shit sandwich and he’s complimenting the sesame seed bun.
— — —
I wish I had discovered acceptance early on in this process. And I wish I had spent more time being grateful for what I have instead of focusing on what I was losing.
When my world got turned upside down, I was determined to rise above it. I didn’t want divorce to define me. I wanted to buck the trend on fathers struggling through the process.
For a while, I succeeded. I filled my days with hikes and adventures exploring the majestic Western United States. National Park visits and demanding mountain summits filled up my weekends. I took my kids out to observe nature and find new experiences during our downtime.
And I adopted a motto over the course of the journey: Onward and upward.
To me, it wasn’t just important to make it through divorce. It was critical to come out on the other side in an improved position. A person changed for the better.
As I sit here next to Dad in the truck, I realize the last two words of that motto have added quite a bit of undue pressure and stress.
His attitude toward Parkinson’s makes me understand that you don’t always need to make progress in order to succeed. In fact, sometimes all you need to do is keep showing up, keep fighting, and keep getting back up each time you get knocked down on the mat.
Sometimes onward—surviving another day—is all you can do. And that’s okay. In fact, onward is something to be proud of when times are darkest. Onward is enough.
Dad’s perspective has also made me question my own outlook, especially when it comes to gratitude. As much as I’ve strived to remain positive, I’ve found it extremely easy to fall into the trap of despair and down rabbit holes of negativity. Just ask my poor friends who were kind enough to take my calls during this. They’ve sat through plenty of bitching and moaning sessions.
Yeah, my bank accounts look a lot different these days. Being apart from my kids—not being able to tuck them in each night—has been absolutely crushing. Getting quickly cut off by a family you cherished as your own stings. And the constant fighting brought on by divorce has worn me down.
But that’s only part of the story. There’s plenty to be thankful for as well.
I’ve got two amazing children who are finding their way while showing unwavering resilience and courage.
We live in a remarkable part of the country that’s provided a constant refuge during this storm, where the kids and I have witnessed some of the most amazing landscapes and wildlife on earth.
We reside in a nice home in a nice neighborhood with a large yard and plenty of space.
We don’t have to worry about where our next meal is coming from or whether this month’s rent check will clear.
I can afford to take these trips to reconnect with my family and recharge when I get the urge.
And we’re all still here, moving onward—slowly, but surely.
— — —
When you go through divorce, you’re presented with a rare opportunity in life to rewrite your story. And you start thinking deeply about how you want that story to read.
I don’t want to be known most for being divorced. Or that I had a fall from grace, leaving a life of plenty and white picket fences behind for this new one of struggle, child support, and rental homes. And I don’t want to be known as just another person who experienced heartbreak and betrayal.
Sure, this is a big chapter, but it doesn’t need to consume the entire book.
Instead, I’d like to be known for how I navigated the roughest of waters. How I channeled negative energy into positive outcomes, and how I used the lessons I’ve learned as an impetus for personal growth.
And I’d love to be known for accepting fate, persevering, and helping others—even those who have hurt me the most.
Lord knows I have a good example to follow.
Onward.
And upward. In due time.
