At first I was resentful. I thought about having a stranger in my home for a month. I could say I worried about the burden my cousin's visit would be on my mother, I could say I worried about my father getting too emotionally attached to someone with a terminal illness, but truth be told, I was only thinking about myself. Who is this stranger coming into my home and jeopardizing my parent's love and attention? That's mine! I want it. After weeks of soul-crushing work on the wards, I jealously guard what precious time I have to spend with my family. The last thing I wanted was to come home and have to entertain a guest, let alone one who will sleep in my room, relegating me to a mat on my parents' bedroom floor. I knew that these feelings were wrong, but I couldn't help stewing in them while driving home for my first visit after her arrival.
After just one day with her, all that resentment evaporated. She was a perfect guest. She literally brought an entire suitcase of Taiwanese snacks for my family. She even brought doggie treats for Abby and Amy. She is kind, considerate, and funny. She would spend time each afternoon teaching my mom how to make felt dolls. She would go with my parents to their community garden and tend the plants. She taught us how to make pearl tea like they do in the boba shops. She was truly a blessing to my family over the past few weeks -- helping keep my parents occupied and most importantly, helping to keep my father's mind off his current state of unemployment. Her presence gave my parents purpose for the time while she was here.
Last night, as we drove her to the airport, she confessed that she was depressed about going back to Taiwan. She was scared about going home and having to face her next round of cancer treatment on her own. She was so grateful to us for inviting her into our home and allowing her to experience family life. As we drove away, my father took a moment to thank us for helping take care of our cousin during her stay. In that moment, I felt so deeply ashamed at my initial, unfounded feelings of animosity towards her. What a selfish jerk I am. I wasn't even home for the majority of the time she was staying with us.
Even as I was filled with self-disgust and loathing, at the same time I felt such respect and love for my father, who has always served as an example when it comes to selfless generosity and going the extra mile for the sake of helping others. While I saw only a stranger who was encroaching on my territory, my father saw a scared woman, faced with her mortality far too soon, with no parents beside her. He saw her needs before she articulated them and his first instinct was to reach out and offer whatever he could.
My father drives me crazy a good 65% of the time and 25% of those times it's because he loves in a way I cannot. When his heart says "help", mine says "wait, but is that sustainable?" When he reaches out to give, I'm thinking, "wait, but what's in it for me?" Half of our fights are because he's unwittingly volunteered my services to help someone and I'm like "Goddamnit, I didn't sign up for this." Well, more like I fight and he gives me sad and disappointed looks. Then when I cave and help because I cannot say no to his sad and disappointed looks and I inevitably feel good because I've helped someone, I paradoxically get madder because I feel guilty for having not wanting to help in the first place-- YES I LIKE TO HELP PEOPLE, BUT I WANT IT TO BE OF MY OWN VOLITION, SONUVABITCH.
But it's experiences like these that remind me to be grateful for my father's influence in my life. Countless times I fall short and I regress to my most primitive, selfish, and hateful nature. I thank God, who knows my many shortcomings and gave me my Dad to pick me up and encourage me along this uphill battle every day. I can believe in His sacrificial love because I experience my father's sacrificial love every day. Watching him reminds me to strive daily to be better. If I could only be half as good and half as genuine as him, I would be content.
