In
August of 1975, when I was seven years old, my father died of leukemia.
My entire life, anytime I have ever told this to someone, they respond
with "I'm sorry." I am sorry too. This fact about my life is sad. It
was sad for the seven year old girl who saw her mother kiss her father's
casket in front of the altar at Holy Family Cathedral. It was the same
church and the same altar where the two of them were married only nine
years before. I remember crying as we left the church, walking slowly
behind the casket, as I finally realized that Daddy was not coming back.
Growing up, my father's death has been a marker of sorts against which
I measured many birthdays and milestones. Though I rarely cry about
it anymore, in many ways Daddy's death has gotten sadder for me as I
have gotten older.
I remember
my fifteenth birthday in 1982 when I was acutely aware that I had now
lived more years of my life without Daddy than I had with him. By that
time, my memories of him were already growing faint. The image of his
face that I carry in my mind is one that I have memorized from the pictures
I have of him. Any movement of his body comes from flickering images
in old home movies. The only faint memory I have of his voice is barely
audible as he spoke to me for the last time in his hospital bed. Small
children were not allowed to visit patients in hospitals back then.
But an exception was made for my younger sister and me because, I understand
now, my father was dying. I don't remember what he said to me, only
that his voice was so weak that it frightened me.
September 1971
I am
told that I am like him in some ways. I prefer soft centers to nuts
and chews in my box of See's Chocolates and I would rather you didn't
put any gravy on my mashed potatoes. I couldn't catch a ball if my life
depended on it and when I am anxious or excited, my feet twitch and
give me away. And perhaps most prominent, just like Daddy I possess
a playfulness with language and a gift for music that allows me to hear
a song twice and know all the words and laugh just like Tigger. Some
of my memories are incorrect. For years I thought I remembered riding
my bike with Daddy until my mother told me that I didn't learn to ride
a two-wheeler until after he died. Perhaps I dreamed it? In some ways
my father's presence seems like a dream now. Seven is so young and it
is sad that my memories have faded over the years.
As
an adult, my perspective on my father's death has changed. In addition
to the little girl who lost her Daddy, I also see things through his
eyes. My father was twenty-eight when he was diagnosed with cancer.
When I was twenty-eight and in graduate school, I tried to imagine what
it must have been like for him to receive his diagnosis. Leukemia: a
death sentence in 1973 that must have terrified him. My father married
my mother, his high school sweetheart, when he was twenty-one. At twenty-nine,
when I married my husband, it's true that I would have liked for him
to join me on my walk down the aisle. But more than that, I imagined
the horror he must have felt when he learned that he would die and leave
behind his beloved wife. When I turned thirty-one, in the back of my
mind I remembered that I had now enjoyed more years of life than Daddy
had. He was only thirty when he died.
But
in June of 1999, I began to understand what must have been the saddest
part of all for him. In June of 1999, I gave birth to my son Thomas.
Thomas was my maiden name and we chose it for my son in honor of my
father and a last name that will be lost with my sister and me. Though
I have barely had two and a half years to spend with Thomas so far,
I cannot imagine the kind of sadness that would accompany knowing that
I were going to die and would have to leave him behind. Now I am pregnant
again and due next May. Soon I will have two little heads to kiss, two
little noses to wipe, two little tummies to tickle-just like Daddy did.
If this baby is another boy, his middle name will be Frederick, after
my father. I am sure that I will think of my father in the coming years
and for the rest of my life. When my husband and I share our tenth wedding
anniversary, I will think of Daddy and how he never saw that milestone
with my mother. But as I watch Thomas grow and become more of a little
person everyday, I try not to focus on the sadness. Thomas can sing
the words to many songs, from "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" to the theme
song from "Friends." His favorite Halloween candy this year was the
soft, sweet Three Musketeers bar. Frederick Thomas may have died in
August of 1975, but a little part of him lives on in me and in his grandchildren.
And I wonder: will Thomas want gravy on his mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving
dinner this year?
