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Missing my dad on Father's Day


MissionBlue

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MissionBlue

This is my First Father's Day without my dad.  It's been six months since his death and it's still so hard to enjoy life without him.  I miss him with all my heart.

 

Every day and night I think about the past.  I miss the good times with my dad and I miss the many things we never got to do, because we ran out of time. It seems like life passed too quickly. I miss him in thousands of ways, in every film we enjoyed together, in every song we both liked, in every memory we shared. Even San Francisco, my hometown which we both loved isn't the same without him in it. He was synonymous with home, love and protection.

We both loved the Panama Pacific International Exposition of 1915 even though we never got to see it. I regret so much that he didn't live to see the centennial year. I bought a PPIE souvenir mug at the de Young Museum showing the Tower of Jewels which we both imagined was a sight to behold like no other. The whole fair was a vision of beauty and wonder never to be seen again. He would have liked the cup. There are so many things I see and experience that he would have liked.

I wish we could have enjoyed the Firefall at Yosemite together. He enjoyed it before I was born and I got to see it right before it was discontinued.  We never got to see it together, because he had to work.  We understood why the Firefall had to stop, but we missed the romance and the reverence of the ritual.

 

I was so proud of my father.  He was strong. handsome and brave, yet kind, gentle and calm.  I always felt safe with him, even after he could no longer physically protect me.  He first became my personal hero when he got an older bully girl off my back in first grade at public school.  He told her if she didn't leave me alone he would beat up her father.  That stopped her in her tracks.  The following year he transferred me to Catholic school. 
 
One of the many highlights of my childhood was when my dad placed a large lighted Christmas star at the top of a very tall cedar tree in the back yard.  He had made the star himself.  You could see it from the Bayshore Freeway.  I remember looking on with a mixture of pride and fear as he climbed way up to the top of the tree.  At the same time, I'll always appreciate the times he was cautious to ensure he'd be with me a long time.   He didn't smoke or drink to excess.  He never took drugs or stayed out late, except when he was working nights.  His biggest vice was a sweet tooth. 
 
In the good old days our fall ritual was to burn leaves in a big metal barrel.  What fun that was!   It was like living in the country even though we lived in the city.  It seemed like we didn't have a care in the world.  There were hardly any neighbors around.  We didn't even have to lock our front door.  It was a different world then.
 
Fourth of July was my favorite holiday, because we had barbecue parties with fireworks on the patio -- my dad always bought plenty of fireworks and food to entertain me, my half brother and my cousins.  While patriotic marches played on the record player, my dad and his brother would jump over fiery glitter cones for our amusement.  My uncle, a railroad car inspector, would demonstrate train signals with a Roman candle instead of a lantern.  The day after Fourth of July was fun, too.  My dad and I would have another little barbecue with the leftover hot dogs, potato salad and sodas.  I'd watch my dad clean the burn marks off the multi-colored stone patio and I'd help hose it down.  It was always a warm, sunny day.  The red bougainvillea next to the patio would be in full bloom.    

My dad ensured that Halloween was always fun, too.  Since as far back as I can remember, he would don a scary mask as he handed out treats for the neighbor kids.  He would buy the candy bars I had to sell at school and hand those out, too.  Even this last Halloween at age 86, he put on a scary mask to amuse me and to pose for photos.  He wore a necklace of blue colored lights to add an eerie glow.  Trick or treaters stopped coming to our door in recent years, but we still had each other.  Times may have changed, but my dad never changed.  He was always young at heart.  He remained the same adorable father he was since the day I was born.
 
I can't help crying when I think of how good my dad was.  He was as chivalrous as they come.  He would rescue ladies in distress.  He was always ready to offer a helping hand, physically or financially.  He was the most generous man I knew.  He wasn't obligated to pay alimony, but he gave my mother money each month to help support her and her son, until my half brother came of age.  He helped care for his sister when she was stricken with scleroderma, a terrible crippling illness.  He also helped care for his father when he was dying from stomach cancer.   He helped me care for our great uncle after he had a stroke.  My dad dropped out of high school to help support his family.  He gave his mother money from his paycheck for the rest of her life.  He left a good job as a purchasing agent, to work as a janitor so he could work nights.  This way he could walk me to school and back until I was old enough to walk by myself.  Sometimes I pass by the spot where he used to wait for me after school all those years ago.  We would walk up the hill toward home, then we'd watch Captain Satellite, Kimba and Speed Racer on tv together.   I hardly see any kids walking home with their dads now.  I don't even see many "free range" kids anymore.  

When I was a little girl, my dad would tell me bedtime stories that he improvised with quaint sayings like, "I see, I see, said the blind man."   He used to take me to the Hall of Sciences and the Morrison Planetarium at Golden Gate Park.  On summer nights, we'd look for shooting stars together in the backyard over cups of hot Ovaltine.  He put fluorescent stars on the ceiling of my bedroom and painted pictures of the planets with fluorescent paint which he illuminated with an ultraviolet lamp.  My dad was a dreamer of dreams.  One of his favorite sayings was, "It was meant to be."
 
He wanted me to have a good education, so when I was in second grade, he bought me several sets of books from the door to door encyclopedia salesman.  He never pressured me, but I wanted to make him proud.  I graduated first in my class in grammar school and in high school.  Then I won a full scholarship to USF.  I dropped out in my third year to become the caregiver for my grandmother who helped raise me. I'll always be grateful to her for giving me a wonderful father.  He was the greatest gift I ever had. 
 
My dad spent many happy hours perusing his stamp collection while listening to "Music of the Spheres" on the now defunct classical radio station, KKHI.  Even watching my dad take a nap was memorable, because he always played good music when he was relaxing.  We enjoyed going to flea markets, garage sales and used book stores.  In later years, he helped me sell his collectibles on eBay. 
 
My dad loved stories of the Old West and prospecting for gold.  We enjoyed panning for gold near Lake Tahoe and in the Mokelumne River.  He bought a metal detector and we scoured the back yard in search of treasure.  We found a souvenir token from the 1939 World's Fair and a very old rusted gun.      
 
I'll never forget my trip to the local Sears on Army Street with my dad, when he bought me my first tropical fish aquarium.  I spent hours experiencing rapture of the depths in the privacy of my own bedroom.  Then there were the times he took me and my cousins dropline fishing off of Muni Pier.  He'd buy us hamburgers, fries and cokes for lunch.   
 
Another favorite memory was when my father made a huge kite for me out of plastic and wood.  He put colorful balloons on the corners.  The kite flew higher and farther than any kite I'd ever seen, until the string broke.
 
My father and I were huge movie fans.  In the days before video, we would go to classic movie revivals at theaters across San Francisco.  Our favorite was the now defunct Avenue Theatre which used to play silent films on Friday nights with live Wurlitzer organ accompaniment.  We'd buy chocolate prune cupcakes at Lido's Pastry a few doors down.  They were the best cupcakes we ever tasted.  Our family friend was the doorman, usher and he worked the candy counter.  He mixed the best Cokes in town. 
 
In the days before video, during summer vacation, my dad would sometimes stop at the Doggie Diner on his way home from work at 2 in the morning!  He would bring home hamburgers, fries and cokes, and we'd watch the late late show on "Movies 'Til Dawn".  When we got our first vcr in 1982, we started collecting films like crazy.  Then later we switched to dvd's, of course.  In recent years, we watched films on Netflix, Roku and Amazon Prime.  Every night was movie night at our house.  We would binge-watch "Masterpiece Theatre" and "Boardwalk Empire".  One of the last series we watched together was "Gran Hotel".
 
I don't know how I am going to face the rest of my life without my beloved father.  I cherish the happy memories he gave to me, but loneliness and emptiness will probably haunt me for the rest of my days.  Now I have huge dvd and music collections and no one to share them with.  When I hear the music my dad and I both loved, I am overwhelmed with sadness.  Even thinking of our favorite films makes me sad.  We used to quote lines from obscure films to each other.  It was like a secret language which only we understood.  We had running jokes that lasted for decades.  Sometimes we could read each other's minds.   I hardly turn on the tv anymore, because it makes me miss him too much.  I got an email from Netflix informing me that they now have Series 3 of "Gran Hotel".  I haven't watched it, because it would be too sad viewing it without my father.  I can't even watch "Downton Abbey" anymore, because my dad isn't here to enjoy it with me.
 
I knew losing my father would be the hardest thing that ever happened to me, but nothing prepared me for the pain and sorrow I am experiencing now that he's gone. 

Even though it's the natural order of things, how can I accept the unacceptable?  People keep saying my father's spirit is in me and he wouldn't want me to mourn too long, but he didn't want to die either.  Even if he had a full life, now my life is not full, because he's not here anymore.  Does anyone truly have a full life?  The more you love someone the bigger the emptiness when they're gone.  I am grateful that I had my dear father for as long as I did, but it's not enough to take away the sadness and the longing for the person I loved best. 
 

 

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silverkitties

That is such a beautiful tribute to your father, Missionblue. I can picture almost everything you've mentioned here--the Xmas tree, the kite, the leaf-burning, the Halloween mask. I can imagine the bliss between you: the happy moments in the theatre, at home, whether with others or by yourselves. Somewhere in the background, I can hear a Rubinstein romance. 

 

I know how it feels to be surrounded by memories. To see things, to remember how we got them, and how we shared them. It hurts to know we can never have experience them again.

 

But I agree with Retz too. I think all of us have been blessed to enjoy such wonderful relationships with at least one parent. The fact is that we did get to experience love and happiness. What was it that Tennyson said--that it is bette to have love and lost than never to have loved? Perhaps we can turn that into a source of comfort, even as we regret its passing. Because our parents' love will also be with us. 

 

I wanted to add, Missionblue: you are a sensitive, gifted writer. Have you considered writing a blog about your father or even a book? Maybe you can channel your giref and turn it into something absolutely marvelous. As someone who was sensitive and intellectually curious himself, your dad would be so proud of you.

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MissionBlue

Thank you so much, retz62, for your beautiful, compassionate reply.  I am so sorry for your own grief and suffering.  Your mother is truly an inspiration.  I can't quit either, because that would show ingratitude for my father's struggles to raise me and give me a happy life.   We must keep trying to find whatever happiness life has left to offer.  I have to learn to accept my dad's death and then perhaps it will be easier to accept my own death when the time comes.  I have the satisfaction of knowing that I helped make my father happy, in the way he preferred, staying home and enjoying the simple life.  What frustrates me is that I wanted him to enjoy so much more and I wasn't able to give him that.  By the time I had the money to travel, fix the house and buy him nice things, it was too late for him to fully enjoy these things.  It was like Moses not living to see the Promised Land.  I still haven't gotten there myself.  I also regret that I wasn't able to pamper my grandmother the way she deserved.  My father felt bad about that, too. 

 

If I can get over my survivor guilt, I might still have a good life, but it takes time.  I will try to focus on the positive as you are doing.  My experience has taught me to better understand and sympathize with the suffering of others.  I wish you peace and comfort.  My hugs and prayers are with you, too. 

 

 

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MissionBlue

That is such a beautiful tribute to your father, Missionblue. I can picture almost everything you've mentioned here--the Xmas tree, the kite, the leaf-burning, the Halloween mask. I can imagine the bliss between you: the happy moments in the theatre, at home, whether with others or by yourselves. Somewhere in the background, I can hear a Rubinstein romance. 

 

I know how it feels to be surrounded by memories. To see things, to remember how we got them, and how we shared them. It hurts to know we can never have experience them again.

 

But I agree with Retz too. I think all of us have been blessed to enjoy such wonderful relationships with at least one parent. The fact is that we did get to experience love and happiness. What was it that Tennyson said--that it is bette to have love and lost than never to have loved? Perhaps we can turn that into a source of comfort, even as we regret its passing. Because our parents' love will also be with us. 

 

I wanted to add, Missionblue: you are a sensitive, gifted writer. Have you considered writing a blog about your father or even a book? Maybe you can channel your giref and turn it into something absolutely marvelous. As someone who was sensitive and intellectually curious himself, your dad would be so proud of you.

I am very grateful for your comforting words of encouragement, Silverkitties.  Thank you also for complimenting my writing skills, which is especially gratifying coming from a gifted writer yourself.  Yes, I feel very blessed to have experienced the joy and love of my father.  It would be terrible to not have experienced it at all.  Unfortunately, being sensitive people, we experience everything more deeply, including grief. 

 

I am currently working on a family album book that I want to publish through Blurb.  Well, I'm not working on it right now, but it's something I want to get back into when I feel better.  It is for family members only though, because my relatives are very private people.  A cousin recently had a baby and another cousin posted some photos of the infant and mother to the family email group -- and the young mother got upset!  She said my cousin had no right to send the pictures to other family members.  It was her aunt's fault for sharing the photos with my cousin in the first place, but I really don't see what the problem is.   I made a memorial tribute to my father for his vigil, which I might upload to YouTube along with my mother's slideshow tribute.  I might want to improve on them first.  So much to do, but not enough energy to do it all.  I better get to the cemetery before it closes.  Will write more later....

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silverkitties

I have the same problem too, Missionblue...I mounted a bunch of pictures for the memorial service and was going to upload them w/ the appropriate music but never found time to do it properly as I am probably the biggest Luddite, i.e., technologically inept.

 

Sensitivity is a double-edged sword. We experience pleasure much more keenly; but pay dearly for the losses. And yet, at the end of the day, I am grateful for having enjoyed those pleasures.

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We put together some photos of mom at her memorial. I was cleaning house the other day and I found it in back of the couch against the wall. I pulled it out and started reminiscing as tears rolled down my face. My 3 years old grand-niece saw that I was crying and asked,

Grand-niece: "Why are you crying Auntie May?"

Me: "I miss Bok Bok." 

Grand-niece: "Oh, where is she? In Heaven?"

Me: "Yes, she's up there watching all of us and she's smiling."

Grand-niece:  "Oh, hi Bok Bok." (her hand waiving to the sky)

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MissionBlue

I know how heartbreaking it is to see photos of our late loved ones.  A while back I came across my dad's scrapbook from his boxing days and I felt so sad that it had been many years since I had looked at the photos with him.  I also found one of my favorite snapshots of him when he was a young man exploring the desert of Death Valley.  I wish I had found it sooner so I could have expressed my admiration for him one more time.  I should have had it enlarged years ago and put it in a frame for everyone to see.   I started to cry so hard I could hardly stop.  I feel so guilty that I was distracted by other things and didn't think of going over the photo albums with him recently.  I thought he would live to see the family photo album book I was working on.    

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