Losing a parent as an adult is a peculiar experience. It’s something many of us share, yet each story is deeply personal and unique. While my father’s passing mirrored the loss of countless others, only my family truly grasped the depth of its impact.
At 23, I was living in Berlin, ostensibly to study German. Instead, I spent nights out with a new friend who would later become my husband. Back then, the internet connection was unreliable, so I frequented a nearby café filled with smoke and locals to check my Hotmail—just to reassure my parents that I was okay.
One cold January morning, I received a troubling email from my dad: “I’m having a minor surgery to remove a rib with a cancerous growth,” he wrote, downplaying the situation. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.” This marked the beginning of a six-year battle against multiple myeloma, a relentless adversary.
His cancer journey began unexpectedly. I can still picture him at home, watching Jim Lehrer’s NewsHour, munching on whatever food he could find, having skipped lunch. A sudden sneezing fit led to a sharp pain in his rib, initially dismissed as an injury from exercise. However, a visit to the emergency room and subsequent tests revealed a devastating diagnosis: a once-healthy man was unknowingly carrying the weight of a serious illness.
Eventually, I returned home to pursue graduate studies and life appeared to return to normal for a time. Yet, there were interruptions—new symptoms, painful procedures, and anxious moments awaiting lab results. Doctors managed to keep the illness at bay for a while, but by September 2008, it roared back with a vengeance.
During those difficult times, my family rallied around my father, taking turns to support him. I vividly recall afternoons spent in my childhood room, transformed into a makeshift hospital, watching the news with him. As financial markets collapsed and political changes loomed, my father’s fear mirrored the chaos of the world outside.
Cancer forged a deeper bond between us. It created hours where the usual distractions of life faded, allowing for meaningful conversations during hospital visits and endless waiting periods. Knowing that time was limited brought an authenticity to our discussions, exploring everything from light-hearted topics to profound revelations.
While some find solace in religion during illness, my father—an atheist and scientific mind—rejected spiritual guidance. He often dismissed well-meaning gifts of spiritual books, opting instead for rational inquiry. In a moment of frustration, he even penned a letter to cancer itself, demanding to understand its purpose:
“We have locked horns for the last six years and it looks like you are winning. Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you want in the end?”
His quest for answers revealed a bleak reality: “We are prisoners of our biology.”
Cancer is a formidable foe, as Siddhartha Mukherjee aptly describes as “the emperor of all maladies” in his acclaimed work. A brief wait in an oncologist’s office serves as a stark reminder that cancer is indifferent to status or age. As my father faced the end, I contemplated my own mortality. Would I endure a similar fate? Would my children witness such suffering?
Our final Father’s Day together was largely uneventful. My family never placed much significance on the holiday, viewing it as a mere commercial event. I recall my mother retrieving ties from the closet for my brother and me to give to our dad, a ritual lacking enthusiasm.
Yet now, I cherish the opportunity to honor fathers, regardless of the holiday’s commercial nature. This Father’s Day, I will summon memories of my dad’s voice and gaze, both of which have faded over time. I’ll share stories with my daughter about her abuelo, imagining him in better days—yelling at the TV and enjoying a red cabbage—transforming Father’s Day into a poignant reminder of love and loss.
In summary, the death of a parent reshapes our perception of cherished occasions like Father’s Day, transforming them into moments of reflection and remembrance.
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