My Dad

Baby me, toddler Brian and Dad

My dad would have been sixty-eight today. Sixty-eight. How is that possible? The last birthday he was alive, he turned fifty-eight. He still seemed like such a young man to me. A lifelong "jock", he was in excellent physical condition. His doctor even lamented to him that he could not warn him to stop smoking because he was ruining his lungs--they too were in great condition. His parents both lived into their nineties, and I, despite his smoking, assumed he would live a long time as well. And I think he would have.

I talked with my dad on his birthday, 10 years ago today. I sang to him, we talked about his students (some of whom I had tutored) and how school was going for him (he was a high school math teacher). We also talked about my classes--a topic in which he was always interested. At the time, I was in graduate school in the math department at UC Davis. I think my dad was proud of what I was studying, though most of it was now beyond what he had studied himself. A few years earlier he had given to me all of his math textbooks from college (I no longer have any of these--damn you Katrina). I displayed them proudly on my bookshelf, and would sometimes leaf through the pages with fascination over how much had changed and how much had stayed the same in college math textbooks over 35 years. I wanted to come to San Jose to see him and celebrate his birthday with him, but he told me that he and his wife weren't doing well and that he wanted to postpone any celebration. My dad wasn't much of a talker when it came to matters of the heart, but we did talk a little bit, and I let him know that I would always be there if he did need someone to talk to.

Dad & me

A little over a month later, I received a phone call that would change me in such a profound way, that, to this day, my heart still jumps every time the phone rings. This "phone call" was actually a series of phone messages from various family members, that I woke up to in the morning (our ringer was off at night). I called my brother back, and he told me that my dad had killed himself the night before. My entire world imploded. Part of me broke, and is still, 10 years later, broken. It will always be broken. That is what suicide does. It sucks. It really, really sucks! And it is such a small part of my dad's life--minutes maybe--but it will always be there, in my mind, breaking my heart every time I think about it.

When someone close to you chooses to leave in this way, it is pretty much impossible to not think that it's in some way your fault and that you could have done something to prevent it. I thought these thoughts for a very long time, and sometimes, I still do. But most of the time, I think about my dad's life. His hands. He had such big hands. I remember holding his hand when I was little, and all I could grasp was one finger. And his arms. Even as an adult, his hugs would completely engulf me, and I became a little girl again, safely protected by her daddy. He was loyal. Loyal, sometimes to a fault, but he loved his family above all else. He was also stubborn, and brilliant, and funny, and angry and thoughtful and so very complicated.

These are the things I will share with Zora. I understand he will not mean to her what he would have meant, had she known him. As a child, the family members who were gone before I was born seemed more like characters in a book than flesh and blood people. Zora will grow up hearing stories about her grandpa, and today we will light a candle and sing to him. One day, when she is older, I will talk to her about his death. I'm still not sure how I will do that, but, in wanting her to know him, she will need to know the good, along with the hard stuff.

In his final few years, my dad got really into opera. More specifically, Andrea Bocelli. We played this song at his memorial, and I will never again be able to hear it without thinking of him and without crying tears of pain and joy. Pain for the loss, joy for the love I will always have for him.

This is for you, Dad. Happy Birthday. I miss you.