Happy Birthday, Dad

So, just a few days ago I would have called my dad to wish him a happy Thanksgiving, and today I would have called him to wish him a happy birthday.  This is the first year that I'm unable to do these things, since he passed away in September.  Today, he would have been fifty-three.

Dad with me, probably around 1986 or 1987

He died of cancer, and he died the morning that I was flying in to see him.  After battling steadily for two years, his final decline was very quick.  It probably isn't rational to believe that he deliberately died before I could see him--but it is what I believe.  When I first made plans to see him, my trip was to be a morale booster.  He was trying to get healthy enough to take part in the second recruitment round of a drug trial, and I wanted to see him to help raise his spirits.  I was bringing Elizabeth with me, because it's almost impossible to be sad around her.  Just one week before I was to see him, he became so weak he couldn't walk, and at that point he told others that he didn't want me to see him that way.  When he was told "too bad" and that I was coming to see him anyway, I think that he, in his normal, stubborn way, thought, "that's what they think."  I think he didn't hold on, because while I know he wanted to see me, he didn't want me to see him--not that way.  He didn't want me to remember him that way.

Dad with Elizabeth, Christmas 2011

 

 

At first, when it was all so fresh, I felt like it was selfish.  How dare he not consider my wish to see him one last time before he died? How could he do that to me?  He knew I was on the way.  On bad days, that is still the thought that flits through my head.  But on every other day, I know that what he did was one of the most unselfish things a parent can do for their child.  I know he wanted to see Elizabeth and me.  I know it.  But he wanted to protect me more, and spare me the pain of seeing my father in such a weakened state.

Dad walking me down the aisle in 2006

I want Elizabeth to know things about my dad, and I thought I could make sure that happens by starting a tradition of celebrating his birthday every year.  So, today I made one of his favorite cakes--Hummingbird Cake--and I hope to do this every year.  We'll set out a picture of him, and when she's older, maybe go through others.  I'll tell her stories about him, such as the fact that he liked to mess with my head when I was little.  I would tell him that I wanted to be a ballerina or something like that, and he'd respond by saying, "Well, when I was a little girl, I was the best ballerina in the class."

I miss him, but I feel comforted by doing something to celebrate him and his life each and every year.  Happy Birthday, Dad.  I hope you would have liked the cake.