I did not have mercy.

My dad was mentally ill.

He beat my mom to a pulp. He psychologically tortured everyone he ever loved. He started hitting me, too, because I was a woman- and he thought that was just what men did. He thought that's what women deserved.

But.

I haven't the slightest doubt that he loved me. He loved his children. He loved so hard it destroyed him. He held so tight. He couldn't let us live. He was a monster, clutching a bouquet of flowers he loved to look at, squeezing so hard that he crushed them.

When I was little, he told me stories of his childhood.

I don't think he ever imagined that I would remember.

He'd grown up in a kind of poverty one doesn't even imagine possible in the United States. He was one of six children.

He never owned a pair of shoes.

He never owned a clothing item that fit. His long limbs outgrew the length of his pants, but starvation made even the smallest sizes fall off of his boney hips.

He used to talk about sharing a bed with two younger siblings who would pee all night. His parents never helped. The children would lie in the urine all night and go to school with sores on their small bodies, smelling of piss and rot. It got so bad that the springs of their shared mattress started poking through. The sores became wounds, dug by rusty springs. If they tried to get out of bed, their mother would beat them. She made them lie in the urine all night. Every night.

Dad used to tell a story about falling into the outhouse- they didn't have indoor plumbing.

He was six years old. It was stormy out, but he snuck out of bed, trekked outside and went into the little wooden shack to use the bathroom. He hadn't wanted to soil his dry corner of the bed. The outhouse had a latch on the outside to hold the door shut in case of a wind storm. Well, he pulled the door shut and he went about his business, only to find himself locked inside. He was six. He panicked. He somehow ended up down the hole, sinking into feces. He sunk up to his neck in sewage before his feet hit solid ground. He couldn't get out of the hole, crushed under the weight around him. He stood in there all night. No one knew he was gone- or nobody cared. His older brother found him in the morning when he went in to relieve himself. He peed on dad's head... and dad screamed... and eventually, they got him out. It's a miracle he didn't die that night. It's a miracle he didn't drown in shit.

His mom beat him for going outside.

These are but two of the stories he told. These are the milder of those which I heard. And they were true. There were photos to prove it.

There is no excuse for what he became, but when I look at his upbringing, it isn't hard to imagine why he ended up that way.

When I was little, he was actually a wonderful father. He made many mistakes, but he never meant to be cruel. He doted on us. He took us on vacations. He played with us for endless hours. He took me on special dad and daughter times. He gave me nicknames and told excellent dad-jokes and braided my hair before bed. He drove hundreds of miles every week so that I could go horseback riding. He did the best he could. I know that in the core of my being. His insanity was mild then, only rearing its ugly head on rare occasions, easily dismissed as someone who perhaps needed a little therapy, but wasn't at all a bad person. But then, I got older.

I started wanting to go over to my friend's house instead. I started getting angry at the endless list of chores I was given during each visitation, while my brothers were allowed to play. I started seeing things I hadn't before. I started hearing words about women that made my stomach churn. He started to hate me, for what I was becoming: a woman. I wasn't dad's little girl anymore.

He wanted her back.

The abuse escalated. He became deranged.

My brothers were the last to admit it, but finally, one fateful afternoon, after he'd threatened to kill my older brother with true intent, given him a black eye and thrown me into the wall as I'd stepped between them, clung to his shirt, begged him not to murder my brother.... They finally admitted the truth.

We severed all ties.

His madness grew.

I would lie awake every night and wonder if this was the night he'd break in and kill my whole family. I didn't sleep for a decade.

I got a call one night, eight years after I'd last seen dad. It was my sister.

"He's really sick, Pearl..." she'd said.

I hadn't spoken to my sister in ten years. She'd clung to our father, refusing to see what he had become. She'd shunned me for leaving him alone.

"Shan, It's not my problem. I'm really sorry you're going through this. I have to take care of my family now," I'd said.

"No-wait-- Pearl--" I could hear her trying to stifle the tears on the other end of the line, "Pearly, he will die soon if you don't help."

The words had hung heavy for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, I whispered, "I can't." She was angry.

"He can hardly walk! It's ridiculous to think he could hurt you now. Please. PLEASE. . I need your help. I live too far away and you're still in town. I just need you to feed him. He is on a special diet..." When I just stayed silent she continued, "Pearly sue. Please. I-- He's different now. He told me what he did to you kids. He told me he's sorry-- His disease...." She'd paused, giving weight to the bombshell she was about to drop, "his disease... it affects the brain. He has been being poisoned for the last ten years... by his own body." I'd started shaking then, and I'd ultimately decided that I had to help. If there was even a slight chance at redemption, I'd offer it. I knew I would hate myself if I didn't.

I went and saw him.

And he had changed. He was on medication. His blood had been cleaned. He was on biweekly dialysis to keep his system from overloading with toxins. He was reasonable. He was kind. He let me bumble about his kitchen and dutifully ate the nasty kidney diet food he needed to survive. He told me how sorry he was.

My heart was mending.

I was going to introduce him to his grandson.

He'd met my husband and told him how lucky he was to be married to me. He'd gone on and on about what a wonderful woman I was. How proud he was. How sorry he was. He was getting better.

He was going to live.

He was going to have all of the love he'd deserved as a child.

I was going to forgive it all.

He wanted to write a letter to my mother.

He wanted to tell her how sorry he was.

I wept.

I had a father. His mind was clear. It wasn't toxic.

And then.

A week later he missed a dialysis appointment.

My sister was supposed to pick him up but she didn't.

The poison in his brain took root again. We got reports of him wandering around town, assaulting people. He was placed in the psychiatric ward of the hospital.

They got him back on track.

They forced him to go to dialysis.

But the damage was done. His brain was ruined.

He'd started hearing voices and they were telling him that the hospital staff were poisoning him. He begged us all to sign release forms.

I refused.

He needed more time. He needed the toxins flushed from his system. He needed to get back on his medication.

My sister went in and signed his release.

He only got worse from there.

I fought with my sister. We severed ties. And I never did see my dad again.

He went back to insanity. She let him.

I stopped being updated on his condition.

I didn't know how bad it had gotten. I got a text one January morning: hey. Dad is not doing well. He's in the ICU at OHSU. Today is the day to see him.

I didn't go.

My phone rang at 3am.

"Sis. Dad died," my brother- the one who'd almost been murdered- said.

"...We knew it was coming... are you okay?"

"Yeah. I will be."

I said bye and hung up the phone. I was not okay.

__________

And right there, 8 lines back, is where I would have re-written.

_________

I got a text one January morning: hey. Dad is not doing well. He's in the ICU at OHSU. Today is the day to see him.

I packed up the car, put my 6-month-old in the backseat, and drove for 6 hours. We had a hard time finding parking at the giant hospital, but finally caught a shuttle and rode over to the entrance. My feet echoed down the hallway, my gait strange as I lugged along the infant car seat. I found the ICU and they escorted me to his room. He was still awake when I arrived.

He loved his grandson. I laid my son next to him and he stroked his fuzzy head.

Dad looked at me and smiled, "I love you, Pearl girl."

"I love you, Dad," I said. He closed his eyes. I sat in the uncomfortable chair and nursed my son to sleep. Then I put my baby in his car seat and held dad's hand. I prayed over him. I forgave him. I asked God to let him come to heaven anyway. He squeezed my hand one last time before his soul left. I said goodbye and I took my baby and I cried, but I wasn't broken anymore.

There was peace.

__________

But that isn't what happened.

Dad died alone.

No one was in the room.

The nurses kept going in and comforting, because....he was aware until the very last... and he cried for his children. He cried for me.

And then they left his side.

And he died alone.

Utterly alone.

With no one to hold his hand.

__________

I hate the part of me that let that happen.

I didn't just rob him of a good death.

I robbed myself of healing.

I took my suffering and I spread it around.

Just like he'd always done.

I did not have mercy.

And that is my greatest regret.