My father, Brun Imberg, was many things in his lifetime:
sailor, merchant seaman, cable car “grip man”, mechanic, counselor…. a husband
(3x), brother, uncle, stepfather.…. recovering alcoholic, spiritual seeker (and
spiritual “Luddite”, sometimes simultaneously) and, of course, father. All these roles can lend themselves to seeing
him in different lights and context. I suppose that’s what makes the reflection
on a life so challenging. As his only
child, I’m going to share a glimpse of the importance my father was to me,
though not just as a dad but as an example of an imperfect man who set an
example of how to (and how not to) recover from errors and failings, finding redemption and grace (both for
himself and his son) along the way.
I am the only child to my parents. For my entire life, they
have represented a binary outcome for alcoholism: life (dad) and
death (mom). When I was born, both of my parents were active alcoholics. My
father always marveled that I didn’t suffer from fetal alcohol syndrome. My
mother would die from alcoholism when I was 9 years old. Dad, however, was led
down a different path, in part because of me. As he told it, his “moment of clarity”
came in 1969 after a hard night of drinking where he had passed out in the
living room and woke up to see me coming down the hallway in dirty diapers,
looking for mom and dad. Soon thereafter, he sought sobriety and was able to
maintain it throughout the remainder of his life.
I wish I could say it was “happily ever after” when Dad got
sober, but it wasn’t. My mother, likely suffering from mental issues in
addition to alcoholism, would abuse and terrorize me for
several more years. But Dad’s sobriety was a ray of hope for me. Even as a
little kid, I knew that he was my haven from the madness that my mother
suffered. Never was he more a savior than on one morning in 1974, as I’m
walking to school on Noriega Street in SF, when he unexpectedly picked me and “rescued” me from the nightmare that was life with an alcoholic mother. We went to another town to start anew. That was the end of my time with my mother who
would die from cirrhosis of the liver brought on by her alcoholism within a year.
I could go on and on about all the good times and
not-so-good times that came after that day that Dad rescued me but that would
be laborious. All I can say is that throughout my youth, as his only child, we
would share in the benefits of his growth as well as suffer the consequences of
his mistakes. Again, he was a flawed man but one who kept trying to get better and who
did some remarkable things that made a huge difference in my life.
By the time I was 18, I was well on my way down a path of
dysfunction and destruction of my own making. I had become an angry and
rebellious person. The more self-destructive I became, the further I pushed Dad
away. I know this hurt him greatly but, to his credit, he didn’t attempt to
“rescue” me then as he did when I was a kid, knowing that the opposite result
of further distancing was the likely outcome. He knew that I had to learn
things for myself…and I would, albeit by learning from his example.
In December of 1990, my own path of dysfunction led to me
being incarcerated for the Holiday’s. This would be the lowest point of my
life. I had come to the realization that I was following in the footsteps of my
late mother. While a terrifying thought, there was a sense of inevitability to
it. But, as stated earlier, both my parents represented the binary outcome of
such a lifestyle in my eyes (and yes, I’m now aware that addiction is not as
black and white/simplistic as a kid’s binary perception). It was through a
chance encounter with a fellow inmate that I was reminded of the path that my
father had taken. And while his path was part of what I had rebelled against in
my adolescences, it was something I had become humbled enough to consider while
ringing in 1991 in a jail cell.
Long story short and without going into detail, on February
9th, 1991, I chose to start a new way of life and follow a path akin
to the one my father followed when he saw me in the poopy diapers all those
years ago. Again, no “happily ever after” here, largely because my journey is
still ongoing. I will say that the path I chose has yielded more peace and joy
than I could have anticipated with reconciliation and redemption being part of
the journey.
Early on my own recovery, I had the chance to share with my
father some of the finer and more painful parts of my journey up to that point
which created a new dynamic to our relationship that grew and sustained for the
remainder of his days in this world. We were able to have a relationship for
most of my adult life that was based on substantive and impactful things:
Spirituality, reconciliation, sharing of mistakes and triumphs, being friends. There is so much I can share about my relationship with my
father. In a nutshell, he was my hero and I loved him.
His final week of life was spent in my home with me and my
family. I will forever be grateful for this time and the gift that was being able to
serve my dad in his final days. One moment that will forever be in my heart is his final Sunday. He was weakening and he knew his time was short. He had some
abrasion wounds on his arm that I was redressing with fresh bandages while he
sat watching TV. While doing so, he turned to me and said, “you are a good man”.
In the corner of my eye, I could see my
wife, Lilian, stop in her tracks and tearfully smile at both of us. I too began
to cry and told him, “you taught me”, to which he replied, “I didn’t teach you
that”. At this point, I had to lighten
the mood and told him, “I’m not saying you can walk on water, but you did point
me in the right direction”. He just mumbled “…. different path”. He was never one for sharing tender moments
but this one hit me hard. I put him to bed and went to my room weeping.
On September 4, 2019 at 9:42 am, my father passed away. The
night leading up to his death was excruciating for me. Watching a person die is
traumatic. Watching my father die….even more so. But, having a month to process
his passing, I know that it was a gift to both of us: for him to be here and
for me to serve him. He knew I loved him. I don’t think there was much “left on
the table”.
Following his death, my cousin delivered some of Dad’s personal items to me. One
item I never saw before was a coffee mug that had the following inscription:
“A hundred years from
now
It will not matter
what my bank account was,
the sort of house I
lived in,
or the kind of car I
drove….
But the world may be
different because I was important
In the life of a
child”
Dad, you were indeed important to your only child and I’m so
proud and grateful to be your son.
