My father

October 6, 2009
He took me in his arms and guided me across the floor, ever so gently yet firmly holding on to me. I was anxious and nervous, never having danced before, but in his arms I felt secure, comfortable and happy. His steps were easy and flowing and for those moments I was proud to be my father’s daughter, for in his arms he made me feel loved and like I could dance as beautifully as he.

I was 15 and celebrating my birthday at a party my father gave to me. He did this for all of us, my sisters and I. Mine was a grand but simple quincianera in our back yard.

My father loved to dance and did it fabulously. He loved a party, having fun and laughing with his family and friends. When he smiled his eyes would almost close and he looked like a happy cat. His green eyes would light up when he saw me, even as he lay in a hospital bed. He had pet names for all of us and despite his ill health, he remembered what they all were. He always responded the same way when I asked how he was. He’d say "no tan bien como usted". Not as good as you are. Every time I called or saw him in person, he’d say that. Now I can say the same to him. My father left this world on September first and now he is in a better place than I.

He lived a redemptive life for the last few years, suffering through much more than we ever knew. Whatever pain he was in we really didn’t know because he rarely said he was in any pain. He sat through hours of chemo and treatments, doctor appointments and hospital stays. Mother patiently went with him everywhere, at his side in sickness and health. She grew more tender and loving as time went on, much more than I had ever seen her. It was a welcome sight.
The last time I saw him was with Joshua and Mom. We arrived at the hospital to find him sleeping and he was unaware of us being there in spite of us calling his name and announcing our presence. We let him rest but when he stirred, we’d jump up and talk to him, hold his hand. Once, he woke up. We were talking to him loudly and Mom asked how he was feeling. He shook his head affirmatively, saying ok, I guess. I told him I was there and that Josh was there too. He raised his eyebrows at that and smiled a little. Josh talked to him and told him he was taking care of his car. My father smiled at that. He loved his car and it was a blessing that Josh was able to buy it from him. We told him we loved him and squeezed his hand. After a few more minutes of talk, my father closed his eyes and went back to sleep. And apparently it was the last lucid moment he had.

He loved Mother so very much. He was worried about her and how she’d be without him. He had always taken care of everything at home and she wouldn’t know what to do. While I was there on one occasion, Soup called me and told me to tell Mom to talk to Dad to assure him she’d be fine. They, her and Nen, thought that perhaps he wasn’t letting go because he was so worried and if he somehow knew Mom was fine, he’d rest better. So Mom did. She held his hand and told him the girls and Nando were taking care of her, and for him not to worry, and that she’d be okay because he had taken precautions to be sure she was comfortable. As he did in life, he is taking care of her still.

I miss my father tremendously. Every now and then it becomes unbearable and I cry. When the Yankees won the Division title last week, I thought of how during this time of year I’d talk baseball with him. When I drive Josh’s car, I can still smell my father. His cologne, his after shave. The other day, Josh was cleaning out his car and found a little black wallet. In it was my father’s driver’s license, AAA card, debit card and other little cards. He asked if he could keep the license. After telling my mom about it, she said he could keep it. Josh had spent some time with his grandfather at the hospital, as well as Neen, Joe and Matt, but Josh was there with Neen one night. He prayed in the room for his grandfather and held his hand.

Shortly after returning from Corpsman school, Michael got to take him to a doctor appointment and I saw the two of them chatting while in the waiting room. I couldn’t hear their conversation but I saw them laughing. Then I saw Michael leaning over, listening to a serious conversation Dad was having with him. It’s a talk Michael will treasure forever. As we were leaving the doctor’s office, Mike and I walked behind my parents who were holding hands. Michael whispered how cute they looked. Then I asked if he was hungry and he said he was and felt like KFC. I told him we’d stop sometime on our way home. As we got into the elevator, my mother told me Dad was hungry. I asked where he’d like to go. He said he wanted chicken from KFC.

Life is full of changes, and the end of life is so hard to accept. I am comforted by the fact that my father had a long life, longer than most doctors expected. We did everything we could for him and there was nothing left to do. We are lonely without him. Like the trees in winter, we are bare and lifeless. But in this cycle of life, they will become green and vibrant in spring. Time gives us hope and a promise of tomorrow.