Father's Day

My dad passed away this year, on March 3rd. I did not expect today, the first Father’s Day I could not call him, to be so difficult. But it was.

But I am grateful for the memories, especially for the memory of my last visit home. We held a surprise birthday party for my mom at the end of February. It was also, as it turned out, to be my dad’s farewell party. It was there that mom and dad had their last dance.

My dad’s illness caused him to need a lot of rest. But that final weekend the entire family was together; he managed to stay up with us. We played cards, ate dinner prepared by my sister, talked, and sat together. When I finally said goodnight to him, he held his gaze on me longer than usual. I think we both knew it would be the last time we saw each other. It was also the first time I realized how blue his eyes were.

Shortly after I returned home, my sister called to tell me he was near the end. They didn’t know if he’d last the week or another month, but that it would be soon. I was torn with whether I should go home immediately or wait it out, so I talked with a close friend who helped me decide that it was probably best to keep the good memories of the family’s last time together as they were, rather than one laden with anguish. When I spoke to my brother and sister, they concurred. I am grateful for that friend, as well as all those who were so supportive during this time.

I spoke to my dad on the phone on Sunday, March 2nd.

“Hey dad, how ya doing?”

“I’m doing okay.”

“I hear you’re not doing so well.”

“Yeah, I might not make it.”

I then told him of all the great memories I had of my last visit with him, and I knew the effort he put into all the time he’d spent with us that weekend. I told him I loved him, and that I’d call again soon. He died the next day.

It is only now that he’s gone that I realize that he left me with much more than just memories. He also left a part of himself that lives in me. Small everyday things, like a taste for butterscotch, folk music, and a laugh that has been dubbed by a friend as the “Cary Cackle”.

Just last week, I was teaching a girl at work how to tie a tie, and it suddenly dawned on me that it was my dad who first taught me. When I mop a floor, it was he who taught me the best way to do so. It was he who taught me about working hard. The way he and his best friend were always there for each other is something I've tried to emulate, always feeling like I've fallen short. And lately I can hear his voice telling me, as it did when I was a kid, not to take so much of the world on my shoulders.

So although my dad has left this world, he still lives on in me in so many ways. Yes, I’ve inherited so much more than just his name. I just wish I could pick up the phone and tell him so.