Not Your Ordinary Day

This day marks a milestone that I generally prefer not to acknowledge. Four years ago today, I lost my Dad. He was riddled with a rather virulent cancer and emphysema and COPD. Despite valiant efforts his decline was swift yet he continued to hang on until my brother and I were there with him. When he passed, beautiful Bay Area morning sunshine streamed through the windows. It was very quiet. His passing was peaceful and we held him. And then the rest of the day is a blur. My brother reminds me that I drove about 100 miles after we left the hospital; first seeing my mother, then going to my Dad's house to work out arrangements, then I dropped my brother off at his house before I drove another 30 miles until I got home. Honestly, I have very little memory of that part of it at all. The day was powerfully traumatic.

My Dad was probably the most pivotal person in my life. He was the nurturer, the maternal parent, a sentimental man who deeply loved his family which he put first always. I need to write about my Dad and grant him the honor well due him, but perhaps not on this day. Soon.

I've acknowledged this day for the past three years with an "In Memoriam" ad in the local California paper. My brother Marv thinks this is morbid. He's allowed his point of view but in truth it's been therapeutic for me to acknowledge this event with some gesture. However I decided not to run an ad this year; I'm going to run the ad for his birthday instead. I guess one would call that progress.