My Hero
Funny that I should start this journal on Father's Day. The one thing I've wanted to write about more than any other, is my father. Yet a year and a half after his death, I still cannot find the right words. I'm afraid I won't be able to do his memory justice.
He was a wonderful father, but he wasn't perfect. He made a lot of mistakes raising me. I used to hold that against him. I used to think he was mean and unfair. Then I had a child of my own and suddenly the old man's rules made sense.
My dad had 71 good years of living. Like most of us, he hoped he'd die at home in his bed. Something quick like a heart-attack. Unfortunately it didn't happen that way. I didn't know it, but he'd been suffering nearly unbearable stomach pains for almost a month before he finally agreed to see a doctor. They found an aortic aneurysm. They fixed it and sent him home, but he was still in severe pain. He went into shock and was rushed back into surgery. Turns out he had a perforated peptic ulcer, which basically means the ulcer ate a hole in his stomach. The surgeon said it was the worst he'd ever seen, but my dad was a fighter. For seven weeks we rode a roller coaster of emotions as he struggled to stay alive. In the end, he lost faith in the doctors and said he couldn't do it anymore.
To say I am left traumatized by his death would be putting it mildly. To see my hero suffer like that was not easy. And he was most definitely my hero. He was the man I compare all other men to, and they always fall short.
When I was a little girl, I'd reach for my dad's hand, and he'd always reach back. I looked up at him with so much love and admiration. I thought he was invincible; it never entered my mind that someday I would watch that man take his last breath. He was too strong to die. My dad--my hero. I really miss him.
He was a wonderful father, but he wasn't perfect. He made a lot of mistakes raising me. I used to hold that against him. I used to think he was mean and unfair. Then I had a child of my own and suddenly the old man's rules made sense.
My dad had 71 good years of living. Like most of us, he hoped he'd die at home in his bed. Something quick like a heart-attack. Unfortunately it didn't happen that way. I didn't know it, but he'd been suffering nearly unbearable stomach pains for almost a month before he finally agreed to see a doctor. They found an aortic aneurysm. They fixed it and sent him home, but he was still in severe pain. He went into shock and was rushed back into surgery. Turns out he had a perforated peptic ulcer, which basically means the ulcer ate a hole in his stomach. The surgeon said it was the worst he'd ever seen, but my dad was a fighter. For seven weeks we rode a roller coaster of emotions as he struggled to stay alive. In the end, he lost faith in the doctors and said he couldn't do it anymore.
To say I am left traumatized by his death would be putting it mildly. To see my hero suffer like that was not easy. And he was most definitely my hero. He was the man I compare all other men to, and they always fall short.
When I was a little girl, I'd reach for my dad's hand, and he'd always reach back. I looked up at him with so much love and admiration. I thought he was invincible; it never entered my mind that someday I would watch that man take his last breath. He was too strong to die. My dad--my hero. I really miss him.