Last week I went to visit my very sweet mother. I walked into her apartment in a senior living home, and went into her bedroom to find an 8×10 photo of my dad. I haven’t seen this particular photo of him since his funeral. This was the very photo they used at the mortuary. How my dad turned out looking, wasn’t as cute as this photo. His eyes are shining, his smile is warm, his face full of familiar wrinkles. I had a flashback when I looked at that photo, of the day he told us his cancer was back. I remember having to walk out of the living to the bathroom, and my dad followed me. His hands were itching, and I think the doctor’s mentioned this was one of the first signs of the cancer returning. I looked at his hands and felt the grooves of the palms, the rough patches where he had worked so hard, and the soft patches of the back of his hand. His hands were beautiful. I noticed a tear drop on his hand, and realized it was my tear. It was Fall when we started hospice care, and in December, after I had cooked the Christmas meal, we sent him to the hospital. He never returned.
I don’t think it ever really dawned on me how dire the circumstance was when his health started to deteriorate. My dad was a fighter, and he was hoping for the chemo therapy to kick in, which it never did. We spent the months between December and February going to the hospital at Stanford. The nurses there got to know us well. It was around this time, that I was learning how to drive. One of the last things my dad did before he died was teach me how to drive a stick shift car in the parking lot of the Mormon Church. I drove home from Stanford the night after he passed away and I remember thinking, “I wish he could see me now.”
For the last 14 years, I’ve spent a good lot of it angry with the way babba (dad in taiwanese – well, my spelling of it anyway) led his life. I spent it angry with how his decisions altered my life, who I trust, who I love, and how it has affected my future. I’ve been so engrossed in this anger that it has dictated my life, and hidden the times when I’ve been most happy. I’ve forgotten that I loved my dad. I’ve forgotten that I loved him so much, that it surprised me when I was overcome with emotion when I saw his smiling face again beaming back at me from this photo. (I wish I had a copy of that photo to post here, so you all could see what I mean… ) I quickly hid my surprise so I wouldn’t worry my very sweet mother. (I’ll post a pic of her here so you can see what I mean) As the months have turned to years since his departure from us on this earth, I am remembering now, what it meant for him to say to me after I made our Christmas meal, “I can leave now knowing you can take care of yourself” (of course in Taiwanese, but you get the gist). I’ve never had a happy Christmas since this time. My heart swells, and I remember – there were good times, too.
