The Wind Beneath My Wings

May 7^th was the 15^th 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.