October 1, 2007...my dad would be celebrating his 51st birthday. On June 2, 1999, my dad died from hypopharynx cancer. According to the doctors, they had done all they could. The cancer had been discovered too late. That was their story. Here is mine.
My mom and dad were divorced when I was 2. My dad moved to Columbus for a job. I stayed home with my mom and my sister. I got to see my dad 3-5 times a year. As I grew older, and more active with school activities, I saw him two times a year, once during the summer, and at Christmas. My dad was an alcoholic.
We always enjoyed seeing our dad. It was almost like we entered another world. Another world that we wished we could enter more. Our dad was not perfect. It appeared to us, for the most part, he did not see us because he had something else that preoccupied his time. My dad would call me to say happy birthday, and it would really be my sister's birthday. When it came to my sister and I, my dad was very out of touch.
My junior year of high school, my dad quit drinking. After many, many years being addicted to alcohol, my dad was recovering. We talked to him and got to see him more. It was awesome. Shortly after my senior year of high school, my dad was diagnosed with throat cancer. My dad, my sister, and I spent a lot of time together talking, crying, laughing, trying to make up lost time.
As time went on, it became apparent to us that we were losing our dad. We spent time together, time that I am thankful we spent. Once dad passed on, I buried the pain, I buried the sorrow. I had basically lived my whole life with no dad, so why would this be any different?
A few years later, I had my first son. Overjoyed with motherhood, but soon thereafter overshadowed with questions and pain. How could my dad not participate in my life? Why did he leave us at such a young age? How could he leave his children? This child, that I loved so much, I could never leave. How? Why?
These questions enraged me. I wanted answers. As time moved on, I realized there were no answers for those questions. At least not answers that would satisfy me. I realized that to truly recover from the pain, I had to forgive. I had to be thankful for the time I had, and not angry for the time I didn't have.
It took me several years (and some therapy) but I have forgiven my dad. I miss my dad. I love my dad. He called me Eric-ee. There are times I walk in my house and I smell him. I smell his house, and I feel his presence. Even if only for a moment, I can feel his presence. I love that. Sometimes it is so hard to "feel" the feeling of him. I remember the times, but if I said I can always remember the feeling of him, I would be lying. He would have loved his grandchildren, and they would have loved him.
My faith keeps hope alive that I will see my dad again. Happy Birthday Dad!
