That Time of Year Again...
'Tis that time of year again. Valentine's Day. A day I dread. A day for remembering.
February 14...Valentine's Day...for a lot of people it's a fun, romantic day...something to look forward to. For me, it's a day I dread and every year I pray for the day to just hurry up and get over with.
I almost forgot what day today is...almost...but unfortunately, that's something that's really hard to get out of my mind...it's been burned into it.
It's the day my dad died.
It's just difficult for me to get any enthusiasm up for a day that brings so many sad memories. It's on this day that I feel the loss the most. I miss him everyday, but on Valentine's Day, it's even worse.
My dad...he was an enigma. Stoic and extremely difficult to read, I heard him laugh for the first (and last) time when I was 17. He rarely smiled...the only way to really tell that he was amused was to look into his eyes...they'd twinkle and crinkle with the smile he didn't outwardly show. He was determined...some could say stubborn (and many more say I've inherited this trait)...and refused to give up in the face of adversity. He overcame life challenges with a simple refusal to back down.
My dad grew up with no family...an orphan...raised in a French community until he was 9, then sent to the orphanage. He had to learn an entirely new language, not having learned a word of English until then. A few short years later, he nearly died when the same orphanage burned to the ground, killing several children and the nuns who cared for them. He was fostered out to a farming family, with whom he stayed until he reached the age of majority. To this day, we still keep in contact with the remaining members of that same family.
The adversity he was faced with when he was young shaped the man he came to be. My dad was one of a kind...kind, gentle, giving, generous, and courageous.
When I was 12, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, given 6 months at best to live. The prognosis was he wouldn't live to see Christmas.
My dad refused to give up and accept this. And...stubborn as he was...he proved each and every doctor wrong by living for 5 years...and not just living...he beat all the odds and the cancer went into remission, something the specialists said was a miracle, an impossibility. You see, there really wasn't a place that he didn't have cancer...it was everywhere. Lymph nodes, bones, prostate...everywhere. (Ironically, though being a heavy smoker for over 30 years, there was not a trace of lung, throat or mouth cancer. Go figure, ne?)
He was in tremendous pain every day for five years. He lost weight...his appetite was next to nil. He lost his stamina...no longer able to do the things he loved doing. But...and this is something that will always stand out in my mind...he never lost his determination. His will to live far exceeded the reaches of the horrible disease and he did. He lived each and every day to the fullest...he continued with the activities he loved the most (and though, perhaps, he couldn't do them as often or as vigorously, he still did them).
But, sometimes, the will to live just isn't enough.
And so, February 13, 1992 we had to rush him to the hospital, where he remained in a semi-coma in the ICU until, finaly, at 2:10am February 15, 1992, he drew his last breath.
Until the very end he remained just as stubborn as always...he refused to die until he, himself, decided it was time.
He woke up briefly from the semi-coma...looked at me...and though he couldn't speak, I know what he wanted, what he was asking. And so, I refused to cry and told him...I told him that it was okay, that I would be fine, that I wouldn't cry...that I would take care of mom no matter what and that he shouldn't worry about us.
And I'd love to say there was a moment of dawning light...and instant of perfect awareness...that he smiled and spoke some precious last words to me.
But it would be a lie.
None of that happened.
But...his eyes smiled at me.
And his hand squeezed mine...just a little.
And he died.
I was 17.
And now, 14 years later, I miss my dad just as much today as I did back then.
And that's why I hate Valentine's Day. It makes me cry...and after I promised my dad that I wouldn't cry...
And so...today...like every other year...I break my promise and cry.
February 14...Valentine's Day...for a lot of people it's a fun, romantic day...something to look forward to. For me, it's a day I dread and every year I pray for the day to just hurry up and get over with.
I almost forgot what day today is...almost...but unfortunately, that's something that's really hard to get out of my mind...it's been burned into it.
It's the day my dad died.
It's just difficult for me to get any enthusiasm up for a day that brings so many sad memories. It's on this day that I feel the loss the most. I miss him everyday, but on Valentine's Day, it's even worse.
My dad...he was an enigma. Stoic and extremely difficult to read, I heard him laugh for the first (and last) time when I was 17. He rarely smiled...the only way to really tell that he was amused was to look into his eyes...they'd twinkle and crinkle with the smile he didn't outwardly show. He was determined...some could say stubborn (and many more say I've inherited this trait)...and refused to give up in the face of adversity. He overcame life challenges with a simple refusal to back down.
My dad grew up with no family...an orphan...raised in a French community until he was 9, then sent to the orphanage. He had to learn an entirely new language, not having learned a word of English until then. A few short years later, he nearly died when the same orphanage burned to the ground, killing several children and the nuns who cared for them. He was fostered out to a farming family, with whom he stayed until he reached the age of majority. To this day, we still keep in contact with the remaining members of that same family.
The adversity he was faced with when he was young shaped the man he came to be. My dad was one of a kind...kind, gentle, giving, generous, and courageous.
When I was 12, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer, given 6 months at best to live. The prognosis was he wouldn't live to see Christmas.
My dad refused to give up and accept this. And...stubborn as he was...he proved each and every doctor wrong by living for 5 years...and not just living...he beat all the odds and the cancer went into remission, something the specialists said was a miracle, an impossibility. You see, there really wasn't a place that he didn't have cancer...it was everywhere. Lymph nodes, bones, prostate...everywhere. (Ironically, though being a heavy smoker for over 30 years, there was not a trace of lung, throat or mouth cancer. Go figure, ne?)
He was in tremendous pain every day for five years. He lost weight...his appetite was next to nil. He lost his stamina...no longer able to do the things he loved doing. But...and this is something that will always stand out in my mind...he never lost his determination. His will to live far exceeded the reaches of the horrible disease and he did. He lived each and every day to the fullest...he continued with the activities he loved the most (and though, perhaps, he couldn't do them as often or as vigorously, he still did them).
But, sometimes, the will to live just isn't enough.
And so, February 13, 1992 we had to rush him to the hospital, where he remained in a semi-coma in the ICU until, finaly, at 2:10am February 15, 1992, he drew his last breath.
Until the very end he remained just as stubborn as always...he refused to die until he, himself, decided it was time.
He woke up briefly from the semi-coma...looked at me...and though he couldn't speak, I know what he wanted, what he was asking. And so, I refused to cry and told him...I told him that it was okay, that I would be fine, that I wouldn't cry...that I would take care of mom no matter what and that he shouldn't worry about us.
And I'd love to say there was a moment of dawning light...and instant of perfect awareness...that he smiled and spoke some precious last words to me.
But it would be a lie.
None of that happened.
But...his eyes smiled at me.
And his hand squeezed mine...just a little.
And he died.
I was 17.
And now, 14 years later, I miss my dad just as much today as I did back then.
And that's why I hate Valentine's Day. It makes me cry...and after I promised my dad that I wouldn't cry...
And so...today...like every other year...I break my promise and cry.