My 94-Year-Old Father Dropped A Bomb During A Zoom Call – The Explosion Changed Everything

I seldom heard from my father. We had never been close, but when he was 94 years old, he left me a brief voice message.“I have something important to tell you – something very personal and private,” he said.A feeling of dread swept over me. Was he ill? Had I done something wrong? We never shared anything that was “personal and private.” Even his suggestion to meet by Zoom surprised me. When did my father start using Zoom? I agreed to talk to him, and when I signed into Zoom, he was already there waiting for me. He appeared nervous and had difficulty directly looking at me. It took him a moment to get started. “When I was a medical student, I worked at a pioneering fertility clinic,” he said. “On several occasions, I donated sperm. A year ago, I was contacted by a woman who thought I might be her father.”He took my stunned silence as an invitation to go on. “I know this is a shock, but it appears that I fathered over a dozen children through sperm donation.”“Oh my God,” I barely managed to reply.“Yes, they had been searching for me — well, not for me at that point, but for their father,” he said. “They found each other on one of the DNA websites, shared their stories, did some research, and narrowed it down to me.”My father was a highly renowned OBGYN and researcher. He was a brilliant man, capable of great charm and humour, who, even at the age of 94, remained astute and worldly. His children were thrilled to have discovered him, and he soon found himself the object of fascination of these newly acquainted offspring.My father revelled in these relationships, basking in the loving light they cast. He held Zoom meetings with them, corresponded with some over email, and met others in person.I learned this had been going on for almost a year before he had his Zoom call with me, and that he had become particularly close to one of my new half-sisters. She adored my father. He told me that she said she had never experienced such a quick bond with another human being. They described each other as “soulmates.” They even had loving nicknames for each other — he called her “Dollie” and she called him “Poppie”.This was hard for me to take in. The father I knew was full of rage and violent. Taunting, threatening, blaming and shaming were the currency he used with our family. His nicknames for me during my childhood were “bitch,” “birdbrain,” and “moron.” As the family scapegoat, I was beaten. I thought I was so “bad” that I didn’t believe I was worthy of having weight on this earth. I was anorexic for much of my adolescence, and when I was a freshman in college, I tried to kill myself. “Self Portrait, Age 13,” a charcoal drawing made by the author in 1966.My healing journey included years of therapy and recovery. Though my relationship with my father was complicated and tenuous, I loved my father. Despite the way he often treated me, he had always been supportive of my passion for creating art. Even in his 90s, he continued to help me with my website. He could still be unpredictably demeaning and cruel, however, and our interactions were stiff and formal.I could understand why he had waited to tell me. These new relationships presented him with the chance to have a do-over – an opportunity to reset his self-image as a father. I’m sure he feared that I might say or do something to pollute my half-siblings’ high regard for him.It’s hard to explain. But though I felt hurt about being kept in the dark, I also felt glad for my father – that this final chapter of his life brought him some joy – and I felt a flutter of excitement for myself. I had miraculously inherited a whole new family of brothers and sisters. We did not share a history of growing up with this complex man, but we shared something profound, ancient, mysterious, and awe-inspiring: a DNA passed down through generations.I was genuinely intrigued. I wanted to meet them. Also, despite the years of hurt, fear and estrangement I suffered, I also wanted a closer relationship with my father. The fork in the road was stark and clear: I could travel with him in his pursuit of these new relationships or I could watch him fade away from my life.My father was apprehensive about me reaching out to my new siblings, but he provided me with their contact information. I began emailing them and eventually spoke to many of them by phone. They invited me to join an upcoming Zoom call with my father, where they intended to ask him more about himself. The meeting was visually stunning: all of these strangers bore a resemblance to my father, and I saw variations of my sister’s and brother’s faces filling the screen. One of my half-sisters was a mirror image of me! It was both fascinating and exciting, yet also awkward and lonely. All of these people shared a common awakening to their new reality. I was connected to everyone, too, of course, but it was also very different for me, and none of us knew quite how I fit into the group.Over the next several days, a few more siblings I hadn’t talked to reached out to me, including the half-sister that my father referred to as “Dollie”. She seemed to want to get to know me. I was pleased, but part of me also wanted to run away while screaming my renunciation of my father and these starry-eyed half-siblings. Still, I had resolved early on that I would not do anything to try to sabotage the new relationships, and I was determined to keep my promise.“Self Portrait, The Suicide Attempt,” a pastel piece made by the author, circa 1971.Over time, Dollie and I reached a point of mutual understanding. I had the courage to hear more about her and her love for my father, and she dared to ask me about my history with him. We had some difficult conversations, and there were times we had to help each other through the hurt.I learned that, like me, she was in recovery and attended a 12-step program. Her love for him and their open discussions about her recovery resonated deeply with him. In one of our conversations, he sheepishly disclosed that he had begun attending a 12-step program with her. My parents had always denigrated my involvement in self-help and therapy, and I had learned to keep my recovery hidden so as not to face their disdain. Now he was speaking my language! He talked with me about believing in a higher power and beginning to work the 12 steps of recovery, which included taking an honest self-inventory and making amends. Rather than a wedge between us, it became a foothold for a spiritual place of healing and union. We could actually talk with each other.Dollie also began telling my father how close she and I were becoming and that we supported him in his relationships with both of us. Hearing this profoundly touched him. His anxiety about how my presence might undermine his new relationships seemed to disappear.This progress was amazing, but there was more. My father wrote me a letter stating that he wished he had been “a different kind of dad, more outwardly caring and loving.” He said that facing his deficiencies as a parent was “like looking into the abyss.” He wanted to make amends for his “shortcomings and the hurt I had caused you.” I called him to thank him, tell him I loved him, and let him know that we could embark on a healing journey together. My half-sister’s love for him, untainted by the past, coupled with my openness to his overture of amends, was a lifeline for him.Despite how far the three of us had come together, we were still apprehensive about meeting in person. What would happen? We weren’t sure, but we agreed it was time to find out. We agreed to meet at my half-sister’s house, which was located just outside the city where my father lived, and a seven-hour drive from my home. It would be Dollie and her partner, my husband and me... and my father. It was a most remarkable visit.Yes, it was awkward at times, but there was also a feeling of togetherness – that we were all trying our best to do something hard but important. At one point, the five of us were sitting at the dinner table when my father said he had something he needed to express. Then he turned and looked directly at me.“I want to apologise to you for my over 60 years of abusive behaviour toward you,” he said.He told me that he saw me, was proud of me, and loved me very much. He turned to Dollie and said that he loved her too. Tears streamed down my face. I could barely speak. There’s a photo of the five of us from that weekend, and it looks like a photo of a family, which is exactly what we’d become.The author (front left) with her father (front middle), her half-sister (front right), her husband (back left) and her half-sister's wife.Of course, it’s nearly impossible to heal from a lifetime of hurt in just a few years, and not all of my mistrust had simply evaporated. My father is now 98. We have a long way to go and a short amount of time, but we are both invested in each other and moving forward. We begin and end each phone call with “I love you,” and that feels like the most important thing.This story could have ended so differently. Though I was still trying, my connection with my father had been degraded to the point that I had little expectation or hope for a reconciliation. My father and I had become accustomed to the coldness. I thought there would be nothing more for us to learn or gain. The sudden arrival of – and his quick attachment to – 16 new, charming, loving adult children felt like one more mortal threat to my years-long efforts to find a loving place with him.The miracle is that we all played our parts and dared to stay open to one another. I will always be grateful for that. Dollie and I continue to call each other. We update each other about our lives. We reflect on our remarkable journey. And we talk about our father. My father passed away as this article was being edited. As his condition worsened and he could barely speak, he would open his eyes and tell me that he loved me. In the days before his death, I was in touch with everyone to let them know he didn’t have much time left.His loving family – including my brother, two of my new half-sisters and two of my new half-brothers – gathered at his bedside. What good fortune it is that I have so many more people in my life to love and with whom to share my sorrow. My grief has been complicated. I never expected to cry as much as I have. I’m surprised at my utter desolation. I wish I had had more time with my “new” father. I forgive him — this flawed man whom I love — but what I hope for most is that he was able to forgive and love himself.Meryl Ruth has gained international recognition for achievement of high-quality, intricately detailed and imaginative ceramic and fiber art. Her work is on display on her website www.merylruth.com. Meryl lives with her husband on a small lake in Maine, where she also has her art studio. She and her husband are currently collaborating on her memoir, from which this essay is drawn. When Meryl is not working in her studio, she is spending time with her children and grandchildren, practicing yoga, kayaking on the lake and cultivating orchids. She has a small Chihuahua, who is a certified therapy dog and accompanies her to hospice where she has volunteered on a weekly basis for the past ten years. She would like to acknowledge her husband, Fred Wolff, “for helping me put my thoughts and feelings into words.”Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at [email protected] Husband Died Abroad. As I Boarded The Plane Home, A Flight Attendant's Innocent Comment Broke Me.I’m From A Working Class Background And House Hunting. My Biggest Competition? Your ParentsI Am Autistic – Here's What I Wish You'd Do To Help My Day-To-Day Life

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