Father’s daze: memories of my worst and best of times

My dad, a flawed man, drank himself to death; but he gave me the capacity to forgive him.

Gemma Tognini with her brother and father Bruno.

The earliest memories I have of my late father involve horses. Like the time he let me dress myself for a day at the track. I can’t have been much older than grade one, and I chose my riding boots, my mum’s red boob-tube, which I wore as a skirt; a faded pink tracksuit top with a giant, frayed shoe appliqued to the front. Of course, I took my riding crop with me because I was ever hopeful of getting a ride if I happened to be near a horse. Mum was horrified.

Dad told me I looked beautiful.

Later that afternoon he popped me on the Member’s Bar at Ascot and tried to auction me off, telling everyone I was relatively trouble-free on account of the fact I was toilet-trained. There are other memories, though. Less colourful but still as sharp, punctuated with other things.

Events and words I spent years attempting to unpack while he was still alive, with varying degrees of success. Raised voices. Terrible, lengthy silences. The sharp smell of scotch at 7.30 in the morning and the sound of ice cubes clinking in the bottom of a heavy-set glass as I waited by the door with my school bag. Even now as I share these things, there’s a tightness in my chest. A wariness of sorts. It’s the shame, you see. It lingers.

Father’s Day especially is the bringer of these strange emotions that contradict. That was my dad. A contradiction, and being his daughter was a wild old ride.

Bruno was concurrently many things. He was equal parts indestructible and shattered glass. Flawed humanity and redemption. He was transgression and grace. The most stubborn of grudges and tender forgiveness. He was my worst of times and my very best, most precious and priceless of times.

“I never really understood his addiction, and I don’t think he did either, it was just always there.”

My dad, who I loved and still mourn, drank himself to death. I never really understood his addiction, and I don’t think he did either, it was just always there. He certainly never really acknowledged nor accepted it.

I guess that’s the simple truth but it’s most certainly not the entire truth. It is part of who he was, not the entirety of who he was.

Some of you have or had good fathers, outstanding fathers. Some of you had dads that you never knew, or who nicked off. Some of you had dads like mine. Cracked and flawed. Doing his best. Battling his own demons. Dads who on paper you’d have every excuse not to love, but you do. You love them fiercely because they keep showing up. Keep trying.

A big part of this weekend is about giving presents to dads, grandads and father figures, I’d like to instead talk about the gifts my late father gave me.

Bruno, while being absolutely garbage at giving things materially (he let me keep one of his retired racehorses, which happened to have a slightly bung leg, but other than that I never got so much as a birthday card from him in my life), gave me some of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received.

He had an immense, unshakeable work ethic. He defiantly stared down every challenge he ever faced. His skies were always blue, even when it was belting down with rain. His was a world framed by opportunity, never limitation. He never complained. Even when diabetes and booze took one of his legs and he went in an instant from fiercely independent to wheelchair-bound, relying on everyone for everything. All of these things, these irreplaceable, priceless attributes, he gave me, long before I ever understood their value.

The one gift I value most, he paid for in worthy tears and a fierce, dogged, relentless belief in the power of forgiveness. This gift was bought on the road of redemption and wrapped in difficult conversations that ripped open old wounds and caused them to bleed afresh.

His gave me the gift of the vulnerability of his own brokenness. The word “sorry”. So many times.

He gave me the chance to forgive him. To understand as an adult the things that I never could have as a child.

The week he passed away, I didn’t really comprehend what was happening. He’d had a massive heart attack, thankfully while in hospital for having some unrelated treatment on his remaining leg. His poor, battered, pickled body was finally raising the white flag.

Seeing him lying unconscious in IC was like being hit by an electric shock. His head was slumped to the right, his face swollen and frowning. My body shook as the tears came, like a friend, gently trying to deliver bad news. It’s time. It’s time.

I made no noise but somewhere he must have known and he opened his eyes and smiled at me. “Sweetheart,” he said groggily. “I wouldn’t leave you without saying goodbye.”

I stumbled to the side of the bed and found a chair, burying my head on Dad’s chest. He put his arm around my shoulders, his warm, thick hand on my hair. And there we stayed until his voice again broke the silence. “Thank you for crying for me.”

Those words were a gift. Carried by forgiveness, clothed in redemption and unspeakable grace. Trust me when I say that if you knew what my relationship with my dad was like in years gone by, the periods of estrangement and anger, you’d understand. You’d know.

Perfection in parenting doesn’t exist. Sometimes I wished Dad would have just gone away but I’m grateful, so deeply thankful, he kept trying. There is no greater gift to each other than forgiveness and that more than anything else is his legacy.