I’VE lived most of my life without a father at this point—42 of my almost 60 years—and the pain can still be overwhelming. If there’s a trigger event in a depressive’s life that throws the switch for the onset of mental illness, your death when I had just turned 18 was it for me.
So, in a spontaneous bittersweet remembrance—because the sweetest superlatives will never be enough for how much I love and miss you—here’s what I lost when I lost you, and what I learned from it.
When you died, I lost the man I loved most in my life, the father I doted on. I have never even pretended to have another father figure in my life since then, and nobody could really be so presumptuous as to fill those shoes. I grew up without a father—so I learned, albeit with much difficulty, that nobody would ever quite have my back like you did. I learned to stand on my own, even if the idea still hurts sometimes in my advancing age. But I’ll be ready for it.
When you died, I missed out on adult conversations with the one intelligent parent I knew would understand how complicated I was. I was left instead with exhortations to act like a girl, tamp down my emotions, hold back my tears, or stay always strong. Later, the crap our family would go through—unwillingly, at least for me—was proof that nobody really asked my opinion. (So, no, the world did not revolve around me.) So, surprisingly, I learned to keep my opinions strong, even when they were unpopular, and almost blasphemous in our dysfunctional family context—just as long as I knew you, Daddy, would have understood.
And yes, although I knew you loved Mama to the moon and back, I also knew you would have supported me when I learned that standing up to her meant standing up for my sanity; didn’t you tell her to get off my case about graduating from high school without honors, just as long as I was happy? So I learned to take the most active role in seeking my own happiness, my own best place in this world, because you weren’t around to do it for me anymore.
When you died, I lost a guide and a mentor. What would you have thought about climate change? About Palestine vs Israel? About LGBTQ pronouns and being absurdly woke? About the Marcoses being back in power, when you had told me before you died that you wanted to live to see the changing of the guard (you didn’t)? Would we have been able to go on coffee or lunch dates, with me pushing you in a wheelchair, perhaps—hell, I’d be happy to do it—to discuss career options or broken friendships, and yes, even broken hearts; it was YOU I told first the first time my heart broke, remember? Because I knew you would say the right things, as you always did.
Maybe I wouldn’t even be too crazy, with you still around. But I wonder, how would you have reacted to my bout with cancer? I wince at the idea of you getting so worried, as you always did about your “little girl.” Then again, I was 48 then, not quite little anymore, but you would not have allowed yourself to be shielded from the reality, like they tried to do with Mama (to my disadvantage, of course). You would have actively asked questions, and been present, and ensured I was doing what I had to do. You would have been 91, a long shot considering your family history, but I did comfort myself knowing that you would have held my hand through chemotherapy if you could have. You would have seen me, my needs, my struggles. So I turned to my friends, who did see, and learned another lesson about friends being family, too.
The author’s ebullient dad in the early ‘60s
So yes, I lost you, Daddy, when I was barely fully formed as a person, when I still didn’t know how to stand up for myself and trust myself above all, with a lot of prayer and faith in God. So I grew up, but like I always say, you loved me and guided me and valued me enough for more than my lifetime. I feel you talking to me in the title of that children’s book by Nancy Tillman: Wherever you are, my love will find you.
We didn’t have enough time together, Daddy, but because I lost you early, and I lost so much, I had to learn so much. Which was why I was never completely lost.
Happy Father’s Day, with all my love.
