What can I say about my father that I haven’t already said at some point during my blogging years?
Maybe I’m writing this because I have really felt the need to see his grave again, and I will this summer, because I haven’t been back to it since I was 17. Or maybe it is because I feel like he might be proud of me, and maybe this is my way of letting him know? Can the dead read blogs?
In any event, I miss my dad all the time, I just don’t dwell on it like I used to. My dad’s death took a huge toll on me and really shaped my teenage years. Having a father dying of AIDS is something no child should have to ever experience, but I did, and I think I can safely say I have finally made peace with it.
Last year on March 9, it was the 20th anniversary of my father’s passing. At 7:30PM in a Panorama City hospice, March 9, 1991, my father died of AIDS while I stood by him, holding his left knee. I didn’t think it was real, and thought he was playing a prank. He was a big prankster, and I thought this was a big joke, but obviously, it wasn’t.
Me and my dad didn’t always have a great relationship, but I was definitely loyal to him and I still am. If it were not for my dad, I would not be where I am today. My dad is my inspiration to do better all the time, because that’s how he was. He worked hard for everything he had and in the end, that’s the legacy he left me with.
This year, I want to be happy. I don’t want to remember that moment 21 years ago and I want to celebrate life because I know my dad would want that. He would want me to be happy and successful, so I guess this is my way of honoring that. It’s Valentine’s Day, and I am writing a blog to my dad because I never got the chance to say I loved him while he was dying. I took it really hard, and I avoided him most of the time, but in the end, I was there. I was the only one of his four children in the room with him as he took his last breath. I don’t want to remember him like that anymore.
I want to remember him as he was when he was well. I want to remember his laugh, what his voice sounded like and the kind of music he listened to when we would take road trips from California to Arizona all the time. I want to remember how mad he would get if I farted and how he would talk in funny voices saying he was an alien named Sammy the Spaceman with a girlfriend named Sally the Spacegirl. I want to remember how he sat me on his lap when I was 10 years old and told me not to let boys do things to me because I was becoming pretty. Most of all, I want to remember how he used to pretend he was Santa on Christmas morning and wake me up by yelling, “Ho Ho Ho!” from the living room. I want to remember the good times.
I remember the bad times too, but that’s part of life and without them, I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the good times.
He liked to be called Bob. His name was Robert. I just called him Dad or Daddy.
I love you, Daddy! :)
Slim Whitman, “I Remember You”
Here are a few pictures of me when I was a little kid, too. :)
