Bernard Axelrad Scholarship Fund

When my father was hit by that speeding car in the summer of 1973, his body was shattered and he was unconscious for eight days. He hovered for weeks between life and death as his mangled form slowly and painfully tried to recuperate.

Less than a month before his 85th birthday the surgeons amputated his right leg above the knee in a last ditch effort to save his life.

During the three months that he was in the hospital, I did not miss a single day of visitation and often was there more than once during the day. The doctors and hospital personnel got to know me as I watched over him, and tried to ease his agony.

One of the nurses, aware of my frequent visits, remarked: "You must love him very much." I just shook my head, not bothering to correct her that she was observing only filial duty and not genuine love.

But somehow, though he was unconscious and "out of it" a good part of the time, he must have sensed my constant presence and appreciated the devotion and care. For my part, I learned to respect his stoic acceptance of the hand fate had dealt him. I suppose that for the first time in our lives some sort of bond evolved between us during those bleak months in the hospital.

Based on past experiences, I expected an even more embittered man to come forth from that terrible ordeal. Instead, there emerged over the years a new persona, grateful for being alive and no longer the instinctively negative complainer. But I leap ahead of my story.

In 1975 I was persuaded by an incident in group therapy to start dealing with my suppressed anger and frustration. Initially, I had resisted talking to the psychologist about my father, stating that he had not been a material factor in my life. I truly believed that at the time.

Then in group therapy session the "empty chair" incident occurred that eventually catalyzed me into action. Norman (let's call him), a young professional man of 33, bitterly and frequently fumed and complained of his father's lack of love and recognition which had so effected him throughout his life. He was furious with his father but, alas, the object of his wrath had died several years earlier, before he could come to grips with him on these matters.

The therapist, in an attempt to alleviate Norman's obvious pain, thrust a chair at the young man and said, "Here he is. Tell him what he did to you and what you think of him." Norman then proceeded to castigate his 'father'. The empty words he hurled at the empty chair were all the right ones as he vented his pent-up fury; but, for me, it somehow seemed contrived and unreal.

That telling scene gave birth to my vow not to wait until I, too, had to address myself to an empty chair.

That's how it began. Later, when I talked in private session to the therapist about my father and my deprivations, I surprised myself at the pain that the memories dredged up and the tears that poured forth. As my true feelings were plumbed, numerous early incidents I hadn't suspected could be hurtful caused me unexpected grief in the telling.

How protective are the years of refusing to feel - a form of benign neglect! Once the repressed resentment and heartache of 50 years were out of the bottle, they could not be put back.

Fortunately, the object of my anguish was alive, albeit an 87- year-old amputee bound to a wheelchair.

For the next five years I railed and ranted, and spewed out a lifetime of accumulated spleen at this hapless father of mine. Observers of these frequent eruptions thought me cruel and heartless: I cared not. For a change I was thinking of me, oblivious of everything except rooting out the demons within me.

The wonder of it all is that my father listened, and he did hear me. Whether it was the severe shock and trauma of the accident, whether it was the bond forged at the hospital, or whether it was his being a captive audience in a wheelchair, I will never know. Nor does it matter: I was able to reach him as never before.

When I complained bitterly of his lack of demonstrated affection for me during my childhood, of his neglect of my needs, or of his ignoring my aspirations, he did not become defensive or answer me harshly. Either he stated he didn't remember or shrugged that it was the way he had seen his father act.

While his responses were not entirely satisfactory to me, he did listen; and so his replies did not tend to inflame me. Day by day, and incident by incident, I roto-rootered out all the garbage within me. A long-festering tumor was finally extirpated.

In an earlier column ("The Loss and The Gain," October, 1983 — see sidebar), I have already set forth some of the concrete changes that ensued: how through my father's efforts I received my first birthday party at the age of 57; and how he initiated our greeting each other with a kiss rather than the perfunctory handshake.

There were numerous other changes on his part (most but not all originating at my continual and insistent behest) that in total resulted in a wondrous transformation in this father of mine. (To Be Concluded)