Daddy's Punch in The Arm
Monday, 11-07-2005, the 20th anniversary of my father's death...strange, I've been depressed all day long, awoke with a migraine that required me to almost deplete my pharmacological stash of pain killers, but still...it never registered on me, not until just this very minute, when I wrote the date down...my daddy has been dead for twenty years.

Died at 58, from cancer, a disease that had ravaged his 6'2" body down to a mere 64 pounds. Fifty-eight, only 13 years older than I am right now, 5 years younger than my husband, who has the same silent but life robbing disease.

I know I need to call my mother today. She marks these anniversaries on calenders throughout her house and in every purse she owns, though she really doesn't need to, as they are all embedded in her heart.

When my father was in the end stages of his battle with cancer, I remember sitting on the edge of his bed one day next to him. He was so frail looking, breathing labored on his oxygen, and having already lost so much weight. He looked like he had come from Auschwitz. His eyes were weak, starting to sink some, but they were still such a pretty and clear blue.

I was feeling rather sorry for myself that day, about losing him, because I'd always been a "Daddy's girl" and about having a mother that I loved but couldn't talk to about the situation because she was so deeply in her denial about the entire thing that she simply refused to admit that this was all even a possibility. My parents were so deeply in love. She couldn't fathom the possiblity of a life without him...he HAD to make it!

Suddenly, my Daddy punched me in the arm!!!

While I was realing from the shock, he told me "If you are feeling sorry for yourself, get over it! If you are feeling sorry for me, don't! I've done more in my (at that time) 57 years than most people will if they live to be 107. If I wanted to do something, I did it. If I didn't want to, I didn't. If I wanted to say something, I said it and if some son-of-a-bitch told me something I didn't like, I told him to go straight to hell! About the only thing I can think of that I always wanted to try that I never did, was scuba dive and since we live in the desert and I have emphesyma, I don't guess that is too bad, so if you are feeling sorry for me, don't. My advice to you is this... You have a responsibility to raise my grandbaby. That comes first. After that, figure out what's important to you, then go after it and don't let anyone tell you that you can't do it because you are a split tail."

It took me about 3 years after my father's passing before those words sunk in. After they did, I started setting 3 goals for myself each year. Those goals were things that were important to me and me alone. That first year was 1.) Going back to school so I could better support myself and my child, 2.) I bought Pearl Export Drums and learned to play the drums, and 3.) I learned to scuba dive...while living in the desert. My first dive was for my Daddy.

Each of those goals came after that initial responsiblity of raising my daughter, however. It was a responsiblity and a joy that I delighted in.