Tomorrow is July 7, 2011. Exactly one year ago I said goodbye to one of the greatest men I will ever know- my father. One year ago, he lost his personal fight with cancer and died what I consider to be a true hero's death. Sick for most of his adult life with chronic heart disease, I sometimes have to work really hard to remember him as a young, vital, full of life father raising four kids and living life the best he knew how. In the months since he has passed, I have noted similarities inmy children, my neices and my nephew that help him live on but I also have come to see just how much like him I am as well. I have so many memories of my dad that revolve around heart transplants and near death experiences that sometimes it is difficult to bring to the surface the others- the really good ones. So, today's blog entry is a tribute to my father. I miss you Daddy. The world hasn't been the same without you.
As many of you already know, I am the first born of four. I used to be conviced that my dad wanted a son as his firstborn. When I was old enough to hold a rod and reel, he started taking me fishing. We would get up in the wee hours of the morning and head on down to whatever fishing hole he was fond of at the time and drop a line and watch the morning fog burn off over the water. When I couldn't sit still anymore, he would take me to McDonald's for a Happy Meal- a real treat back in those days! We fished together for many years and to this day I still enjoy the tranquility of water in the morning.
Dad was a big fan of Lake Ontario. Not only did he fish its waters but he loved to swim in it. When my sister and I were young, he would come home every day from his roofing job and pack us in the truck and drive us down to the lake to swim. Even when I broke my wrist the summer I was nine years old, he wrapped the cast up good in bread bags and duct tape so I wouldn't miss a single trip to the water.
He also loved to talk. Telling stories was second nature to Dad and as anyone who has ever tried to watch a movie with him knows, nothing could stop him if he wanted to chat! We weren't the wealthiest family around by a long shot but we always had a good time. Many a summer night, my father would build a big bon fire and regale us with tall tales of the Volney Indians (a made up tribe for all you historians out there) and keep us entertained for hours!
Perhaps the most influential memory I have though was from the year that Cabbage Patch Dolls were the must have Christmas toy. I didn't even like dolls but I wanted one in the worst way. They were expensive and as I mentioned, we were not the wealthiest family in the world. Instead of telling my sister and I we couldn't have one, he took on an extra job building something or painting something and showed up one night with two dolls- one for each of us. Now, they weren't "real" Cabbage Patch Dolls but it didn't matter. As an adult with two kids of my own and not being the wealthiest family in town I really understand what a sacrifice that was for him.
It was my father who taught me to handle a hammer and a paint brush. He often toted me along to on the side remodelling jobs and actually let me help. It is because of him that I am strong and independent and able to stand on my own two feet even in the toughest situation. I am proud that he taught me to think out side the box and to love unconditionally and that money will never buy me the kind of happiness that we grew up with.
When I close my eyes now and think of him I always see the same thing. An image of him lying in a hospital bed at Mass General in Boston minutes after a heart transplant. So still and cold and blue, I was certain that he was dead. That memory leads me to a weekend barely three weeks later when I went to see him at the hostel and he was so refreshed from having his new heart that he walked me up and down the Boston city streets for so many hours, my feet broke out in blisters. From there I think of him walking me down the aisle in a little New England church and holding my own first born child in his arms just days after he was born.
I never picture him the way he was in the weeks before he died. My final image is one I have conjured up on my own and it is the one I take the most comfort from. I imagine him walking up the driveway in the moments after he died along with my grandfather and my uncle, swinging a tackle box and toting fishing pole. His smile, the kind that always made it to his eyes, is what I see in my mind. The same smile my children have.
There is no doubt that I miss my father. Every day I think of him and have caught myself on many an occasion reaching for the phone to tell him something only to remember that he won't be there. Sometimes I swear he is right there with me, yelling at me when I drop paint on the wood floor or reminding me not to pile frozen food up in front of the fan in the freezer. He used to tell me that when he died he would visit my bedroom in the middle of the night when my husband and I were there and knock on the headboard. That is one tale I really hope he was making up!!
In the weeks prior to his death we talked alot. He shared many stories of his childhood with me, stories I am trying like crazy to capture in a book I will one day dedicate to his memory. In the meantime I do my best to honor his memory for my children and myself. He was a good man and the first hero in my life.
I love you Dad and I really miss you. We all do.
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