May 7th was the 15th anniversary of my
dad’s death. It feels like forever
since I last saw him. But it also
feels like just yesterday that I was sitting at his chemotherapy treatments
with him.
My dad had a great sense of humor. He was quick-witted and sarcastic; I could never keep up
with him. Few could. Some of my earliest memories are of us,
sitting around as an extended family enjoying whatever holiday it was,
giggling. If we weren’t laughing
because of what he was saying, it was because he was tickling us. Gosh, I hated the tickling. There isn’t anyone who could claim to have
truly known my dad and had not heard my dad tell the ‘how the angel got on top
of the Christmas tree’ joke.
“Popsicle”, as I sometimes called him, was the smartest
person I knew, and he valued education highly. Although he was a few credits short of receiving a college
degree, he was greatly successful in the workplace. There was never an option in our house about going to
college. My parents wanted better
opportunities for us than they had, and a college degree was the ticket to get
them. Good grades were a pathway
to my dad’s heart, and I worked hard to get there and stay there. In fact, I’m a CPA today because of my
dad’s guidance and encouragement. And my sister has
more college degrees and certificates than I can count because of the hard work
ethic he instilled in his children.
My dad seemed to know everything about everything. I don’t mean that he was condescending;
he wasn’t at all. I mean he never
lost a game of Trivial Pursuit. I
honestly don’t remember asking a question that he didn’t give me an educated,
thoughtful response to or opinion on.
I don’t even remember going through that teenage-stage where you think
that your parent doesn’t know anything.
He was whom I turned to with the tough questions and when I needed an
honest answer and constructive advice.
My dad was a fair and just person. He was all about things being “even”. I can’t tell you how many times I heard
this and, more importantly, witnessed this throughout the years. He always tried to make things equal
between us kids at home. He was
also fair and kind to his employees.
During my college years, and after a couple year stint as an auditor
after college, I worked for the same bank as my father – same company,
different location. Most people
lit up when they heard my dad’s name and were truly glad to meet his
daughter. One of the reasons I
loved that job was that I was proud of my dad and got to hear over and over again
what a great guy he is. Who could
tire of that?
My parents divorced when I was only ten years old. I still remember the day that I
discovered he had moved out: his
dresser drawers were empty. I
remember my mom sitting my siblings and me down to tell us that my dad had
moved out and she wasn’t sure if he would be coming back. There’s no doubt that that sucked. Divorce truly is difficult on everyone
involved: the couple, the children, and the extended family. I’m sure that my childhood would have
been different had my parents stayed together, but I’m not sure that it would
have been better. As I remember
it, weekends were a time for recharging when my parents were married. I remember my dad napping on the
weekends. I remember cuddling up
with my dad to do the Sunday crossword puzzle, which was great but not so exciting
for a kid. After my father moved
out, he visited most Sundays and took us overnight some weekends. We also went on great vacations with
him during the summers. My dad
came up with plans for us for most visits. We went to the movies, museums, and New York tourist
sites. We visited his family
members, old friends, and friends from work. All of sudden we had this time with my father under
circumstances that we had never experienced before. Dad was cooking for us and cleaning up the kitchen. Dad was doing our laundry. Dad was helping us with the random
weekend school project. Don’t get
me wrong. I hated that he didn’t
come home every night. I missed
being able to ask him my homework questions when he got home from work. His absence was noticed at parties for
special occasions. But some of my
fondest childhood memories are those stimulating Sundays and sleepovers.
Because my dad had heart disease at an early age, our family
educated ourselves on the benefits (and necessity) of eating a healthy diet and
exercise. Red meat was a treat not
a staple and there were always lots of fruit, veggies and whole grains around
when we visited my dad and Karen.
My dad wasn’t a runner but he did enjoy walking miles while listening to
his music and working out in their home gym.
I feel sad that my girls never got to meet my dad. I look for him in them, but I don’t see
him. I do see my dad in my brother
at times. I see my dad every time
I see my uncle, his brother. I try
to point this out to my girls when I can.
Unfortunately the only time I see my dad in myself is when my patience
is short and I find myself speaking to my children through my gritted teeth. I know that he is with me in spirit,
and I share stories with my girls about fun times with my dad whenever one pops
into my head, which is often.
I was never a “daddy’s girl” though I greatly respected my
father. I often wonder if our
relationship left off acceptably as far as he was concerned. There was so much I wanted to say that
I didn’t. I never asked for
forgiveness for the snide comments I made, the occasions that I lied to keep
myself out of trouble, and just being overall inconsiderate at times. I didn’t tell him how much I truly
loved and respected him and how much I appreciated how hard he worked for
us. I didn’t tell him how I
recognized that he did his best to be a good father. Even though I knew how sick he was, I couldn’t bring myself
to say these things. Part of the
reason was because I felt that if I said them, it meant that I was giving up on
his health, on his life. I
couldn’t let him down like that.
Part of it was I couldn’t admit to myself that he was going to be gone
before I knew it.
My father died the afternoon of May 7, 1997 after a 9-month
battle with lung cancer. He was 55
years old. The weather that day was
beautiful. My stepmom, her friend,
my sister, my brother, and I were all there when he took his last breaths. I felt such fear every time I entered
that hospital room during his last extended stay. I couldn’t allow that fear to keep me from being with him
though. Every time I thought I was
scared, I thought about the fear that he may have felt. There was no way we could let him pass
alone. I’m not sure how else to
explain it, but I felt honored to have been there – to have been a part of his
passing. I swear that I heard him
say, “I love you” during those last breaths, but my sister and brother said
they didn’t hear that; we were together right next to his bedside. The last moments were peaceful. His pain was gone.
I know this post may seem a bit off the topic of my quest
for good health, but I don’t think so.
A pathway to good health includes a healthy, healed spirit. Throughout the years, I have wanted to
document some of my thoughts about my dad but just didn’t. Why? I’m not sure.
Too busy? Not ready to
share? Afraid? I really don’t know why. But with the anniversary of his passing
and his recent birthday in Heaven, these thoughts have been in the forefront of
my mind. I like having them there. With each anniversary though comes the
fear that I will forget more about him:
what he looked like, what he smelled like, how he was a lip-kisser. The more I document what I remember,
the more that fear is removed, leaving my spirit more serene.
I love you and miss you every day, Daddy. Sending you big kisses on the lips in
Heaven.
After I cleaned up from my run, I headed to my check up with the oncologist. For the last couple of years, I experience an overwhelming sense of survivor's guilt when I visit the office. One of the staff members told me today that I was one of the patients that have been with the practice the longest. This is a huge practice and I know it's not because everyone has changed practices or moved :( At this point, I visit Dr. B. every six months. They draw blood and she does a physical check up. That's it. This morning the phlebotomist couldn't find a vein. I've been through this too many times before. So two sticks, three phlebotomists, some bandaids and lots of gauze later, they got the minimum amount of blood they needed. Physical examination was fine - nothing unusual. I usually get blood test results, which include tumor marker results, in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dr. B. scheduled me for a bone density test. I've never had one before and because I've suffered two stress fractures in a short period of time and the chemo that I had has been known to diminish bone density, we thought it would be a good idea to get a baseline at this point.
