Losing a parent as an adult is a peculiar experience. It’s a journey that many embark on, yet each story is uniquely personal, brimming with details only those closest to the individual can truly grasp. My father’s passing mirrored the fate of countless fathers before him, but the implications resonated deeply within just my family.
At 23, I was living in Berlin, ostensibly to study the language, but my nights were often spent out with a new friend who would eventually become my husband. The internet back then was a bit of a mess—almost like dial-up but not quite. I would visit a local internet café, which was typically filled with the smoke of locals and the hum of discontent, just to shoot a quick email to my parents, assuring them I was alive and well.
One fateful January morning, likely dark and frigid in Berlin, an unsettling email appeared: “I’m going to have a small surgery to remove a rib with a cancerous growth,” my father wrote casually. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.” Thus began a six-year struggle against the relentless beast known as multiple myeloma.
Like many cancer stories, my father’s began abruptly. One evening, while watching The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, he felt a sharp pain in his rib after sneezing. He chalked it up to his recent workout. But this pain led to an emergency room visit, a series of tests, and ultimately, the heartbreaking news that this seemingly healthy man had been unknowingly battling a serious illness.
Eventually, I returned home to pursue graduate studies, and life resumed for my family—at least for a little while. There were disruptions, of course: new symptoms, painful procedures, and the anxious wait for lab results. Yet, for a time, the doctors managed to keep the monster at bay. That all changed in September 2008, marking the beginning of the end.
My family took turns caring for my father, helping him out of bed during the rare moments he had the strength to do so. I remember an afternoon spent in my old room, which had turned into a makeshift hospital. We watched the news together, absorbing the chaos of the world outside—Lehman Brothers had just collapsed, and there was talk of a financial meltdown. Fear flickered in my father’s eyes, reflecting both the turmoil of the outside world and his own impending fate.
Cancer forged a deeper bond between my father and me. It created unexpected opportunities for lengthy conversations, free from the usual distractions of work. As we sat together during long waits and hospital stays, we discussed everything from the trivial to the deeply personal. Knowing his time was limited unleashed a torrent of stories and emotions.
While some turn to religion for solace during times of illness, my father, a cultural Jew and staunch atheist, did the opposite. He rejected any spiritual guidance offered by friends, often with fervor. “BUUUL-SHEET!” he would exclaim, tossing aside any book that attempted to explain his situation. He even penned a letter to his disease, demanding answers: “Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you want in the end?”
In his quest for understanding, he reached an unsatisfactory yet truthful conclusion: “We are prisoners of our biology.” Cancer is unforgiving, powerful, and indiscriminate, as echoed in Siddhartha Mukherjee’s Pulitzer-winning book, The Emperor of All Maladies. A few moments in an oncologist’s waiting room serve as a stark reminder that cancer doesn’t care about status, age, or background.
As my father faced the end, I found myself contemplating my own mortality. Would I endure such suffering? Would my children witness the same fate?
Our last Father’s Day together was rather unremarkable. My family never put much stock in the holiday, believing that mothers deserved all the credit. Father’s Day was just another Hallmark holiday. As kids, we would awkwardly present him with ties we pulled from the back of the closet, hardly an enthusiastic celebration.
Now, however, I cherish the chance to honor fathers, no matter how commercialized the day may seem. On Father’s Day, I summon my father’s voice and remember his gaze, now blurred by time. I’ll share stories with my daughter about her abuelo, who she never had the opportunity to meet. I envision my father in good health, lounging on the couch, yelling about politics while munching on tortilla chips. A Father’s Day without my dad has taken on a new significance for me.
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In summary, the journey of losing a parent reshapes how we view days meant for celebration. Father’s Day becomes a poignant reminder of love and memory, a chance to share stories and honor those we’ve lost.