My Father was diagnosed with Prostate Cancer in the fall of 1999, the very same day that he retired from his job. I remember getting the news from my Mother via telephone as I sat in the overstuffed shabby chic chair I was so proud of finding and reupholstering in my 1950’s mid-wilshire apartment. I was 24. He was 54. Dad got on the phone and told me he would fight it, tears making themselves known in the cracking of his voice. This man, this big strong man, was not invincible. He was human after all, frail, and susceptible to disease just like the rest of us.

After multiple surgeries, hormone therapies, homeopathic treatments, drug trials, and pretty much everything except Chemo, he is still here with us, 15 years later. The Cancer is now in his bones: “Metastatic, Stage IV Cancer.” At this point, it’s a wait and watch situation. Nothing more for him to do except enjoy the fact that he is walking around relatively pain free and mobile for the time being, not knowing when the bomb inside him will go off that will (maybe quickly or maybe slowly) begin to strip away the facilities he has remaining and produce immense physical pain.

His last visit to the Oncologist, which ended with a — “Well, it’s good news for the state of cancer that you have. Your cancer is growing slowly because of the treatments/drugs you are currently taking. This could extend your life several years,” — was informative, but not exactly hopeful. We are grateful to have him here for as long as he will be, of course, but the message for the past year has been the same: You’re dying. We don’t know when or exactly how, but you are dying and you will become more and more sick as time goes on. And we can’t really do anything about it. Except maybe slow it down. Maybe…

After hearing Mom’s thorough translation of this last appointment with Dr. Lam, I thought about losing Dad, really losing him, for the first time since he was diagnosed. It felt much closer this time. I thought about a funeral. What kind of service would we have? What kind does he want? Does he even want one? Dad doesn’t have a lot of friends and we have a very, very small family. If I were to say something about him, what would I say? There is still so much left unsaid between us. And so, it occurred to me to write this for him now, while he is still here, in the way that I would speak about him so that he might have a chance to see himself through my eyes, before he goes.

….

Handsome doesn’t really begin to describe my Father.

Beautiful.

Gorgeous, even.

Regal, almost, despite the dark sadness lurking in his emerald green eyes.

Tall and slender, strong and capable, his presence so alluring and yet, as a child, I was scared to try to get close, as if his greatness would reject me altogether, all at once.

Perhaps it was impossible

to get close to this beautiful, angry, sad man with a roaringly funny sense of humor.

I kept on trying in my ways.

His own Father abandoned them.

Dad was left to raise his younger brother, and, essentially, his Mother.

As many women thought they needed to be in the ‘50’s, she remained helpless.

He became a man in the midst of his boyhood, literally picking up cans

to buy a loaf of bread for their supper.

No role model, no support, no softening, except for his gentle French Grandmother, Solange, for whom he lit a candle in Notre-Dame that time in Paris.

That day, in Paris, I saw him differently for the first time.

I was 20, still in college.

Still dumb enough to think I knew everything.

As he raced back into the Cathedral to light the candle for her, I saw him as a child.

Kind and innocent and undeserving of the terrible things that happened to him and would yet still happen:

an abusive, alcoholic father who eventually left;

a horrific first marriage to an older woman (he was 17 years old) who physically and mentally assaulted him;

decades of untreated depression;

secretly drumming in the basement on his old drum kit late at night to let off steam,

(I would sometimes crouch on the stairs just out of sight and listen to him drum, it was the closest I came to sharing something meaningful to him);

years of cancer treatment that would slowly, surely kill him whilst rapidly speeding his aging process.

He sold the drums.

Started watching TV, a lot.

He was so tired.

Exhausted.

I was exhausted for him.

I wanted to take away the sadness.

So I shone bright,

trying to be a mirror,

reflecting how amazing he was back to him.

But he had his own path, and I had mine.

He couldn’t see me

because he couldn’t see himself.

When I told my Dad that I was pregnant, he sighed and hung his head down.

It hurt.

Later, I realized that he wasn’t disappointed, he was afraid.

After the perspective he’d been given on humanity at such a young age…

of course he was.

Then, my son was born…

Dad lit up around this little boy.

The two of them would get into mischief of one kind or another together.

They would talk.

My son asked Dad about his childhood.

Dad would tell him.

His light was so bright and pure,

coming at just the perfect time in just the perfect package,

he could show Dad just how amazing he really was,

how amazing life can be.

I will cherish the memory of his quick wit,

his hugs — which revealed how much he really, truly adored me, —

his rough, working hands,

which taught me to ride a bike,

to catch a baseball,

to play basketball,

to rake leaves and pick up pine cones,

to learn my multiplication tables,

to drive a car (“slow the fuck down, Jennifer”).

and which held my hand every time I asked,

and mostly the indelibility of

his deep green eyes,

a maelstrom of untouchable emotion buried beneath them.

Shine brightly, Daddy.

I love you.