August 02, 1999
Daddy's Girl
I was born eight years into my parents' marriage, after a lot of trying. Dad was about twenty years older than my mom, and when I was born, he was forty-nine years old. I was the only child he ever had. Add all that together, and it's pretty easy to figure out that I was a daddy's girl. He spoiled me terribly. It broke his heart when I cried; I have absolutely no memories of him ever disciplining me. Mom says he spanked me once, but swore he'd never do it again after that. I know that can't have been easy on Mom, always being the 'bad parent'.
For a long time, I remembered him as the fun one. He retired when I was about three or four for medical reasons, so he was the one to stay at home with me while mom worked. It was more like living with my grandpa than my dad really, which is kinda funny, since I don't remember either of my grandfathers. From the time I was about old enough to walk, he would take me fishing with him. I can remember being five and six years old, sitting out in his boat. I never caught much, but it didn't really matter. I can't even remember if we talked about much... although he taught me where the fish would hide. He'd point out their hiding places and explain about the different types of fish we caught: bluegill, bass, sunfish (which were my favorite to catch, they always fought hard enough that they felt bigger than they ever were). Every trip ended with him speeding around the lake with me sitting up in the bow, letting the wind blow past me.
In the winters he would hunt. I don't think it mattered what. I know he hunted squirrel, rabbits, deer, pheasant, dove... once I think he even got a raccoon, I know, because I remember having it for dinner. I never got to go hunting with him. Granted, at the time, I don't think I wanted to. We always had beagles, always at least two, sometimes three of them, as dad's hunting dogs. And of the two, one was always named Katy, and one was always named Lady. Almost every picture of me under the age of two is a picture of me either scolding Katy or trying to kiss her.
Also in the summers, Dad would take Sheri and me to the Dairy Queen in Brighton, and let us wander up into the old cemetery that was right behind it while we ate. It sounds sort of morbid, but it was really neat to see all the old, old tombstones, and to look at the names. And of course, after that, we had to go to the duck pond (or the Mill Pond, if you want to be particular) and play at the playground there. That playground now is completely enormous and child-proofed and... sort of pretentious. The whole area is very yuppified now.
Until the age of about twelve, every movie I saw, I saw with him. I think we must have gone to every animated movie that came out. While Star Wars had been a family event, it was me and dad who went to see The Empire Strikes Back the night it opened, and then he was one of the first in line to get tickets for Return of the Jedi when it opened. In all honesty, I don't think he actually enjoyed those movies... he did all that because I wanted to see them. There was one movie I remember him actually enjoying. Matter of fact, I went with him because he wanted to see it, rather than the other way around. Out of Africa. That surprised me then, and still surprises me now. It didn't seem like the sort of movie he would like. He said he liked the scenery.
Then, my freshman year of high school, Dad started to be sick a lot. His back always hurt, and he wasn't able to do all the things he wanted to do. That spring, I found out that he had cancer. "Multiple Myeloma is a cancer of the body's blood forming and immune systems. It is a rare cancer characterized by the accumulation of malignant plasma cells in the bone marrow and excess monoclonal immunoglobulin (Ig) in the serum and/or urine." That's a quote I stole from a web page. I didn't actually know that then. All I knew was that dad had a cancer that was similar to leukemia, and affected his bone marrow. And I knew the doctors said he had two years to live.
He had his first real hospitalization during my sophomore year. During that year what was happening really hit home with me. Your parents aren't supposed to die before you become an adult -- I was fourteen. I spent a lot of that year withdrawn, angry. Especially angry, and I had no idea how to express it. By my junior year I had restabilized, mostly by not thinking about it. My mom was wonderful during all that time. She wore herself out trying to be there for everyone. I know she doesn't believe it, but she was there for me when I really needed her, even if she wasn't there 100% of the time. By my senior year, things seemed perfectly normal. I was going on with my life. I feel guilty about it now, but I've since learned that Dad wanted me to do just that. By now it had been three years, and it seemed like the doctors were completely wrong.
I have a lot of pictures of the two of us from this time. Pictures of me heading to various proms and dinners, always dressed up and as radiant as a teenager can be. In all of those pictures, Dad is in his hospital bed that we kept in the living room. And in almost all of them, he isn't looking at the camera. While I was beaming at the photographer (almost unfailingly my mom), Dad was looking up at me. Not smiling. He didn't smile very much. But smile or no, the expression says it all. Over and over again, he said that he wanted to see me graduate from high school.
June, 1989. He did.
After that, it was almost as if he let go. He held on to see the one thing that meant as much to him as anything, and when that was done, he could let go of it all. The selfish part of me still wishes he had held on for something more. I remember telling mom at one point that I wanted him to be around for my wedding, and to see me graduate from college. Hell, if he'd hung around for that, he'd still be alive. But it was time. He'd fought for three years. As a family, the three of us had fought for three years. Finally on July 31, 1989, he came down with pneumonia.
On August 2nd, at about five in the morning, he finally let go.
I woke up when it happened. I'm still firmly convinced of this. I woke up and knew something was wrong, and headed to work. A few hours later mom came to get me.
Sometimes I forget to miss him. A lot of the time now. I wondered, when I decided to write this, if I'd cry. I haven't, yet. After ten years, I've healed and moved on, but I still ache. I guess I always will.
I love you, Dad.
