It was my escape.

A morning cup of coffee with my father and Leukemia.

It was one week since his sixty-one day stretch at Stanford Hospital. I found out about his illness on September 18th, 2013 in the early afternoon. I was at work when I received the call from my mom.

“They think something is wrong.” my mom said.

When speaking with him, he sounded confident and eager to beat a disease he knew little about. He saw it as a challenge, and hard work was the solution.

At this moment, life changed its path.

He was sitting at our kitchen table quietly, staring at his cup of coffee he was holding with both hands. The sun had just begun to spread light throughout the kitchen. As I walked in the room he turned and made eye contact with me.

“Ricky” he said.

I was surprised to see him up so early. He was wearing this robe I had gotten him.

The robe is navy blue, with white and yellow plaid lines.

He rarely wore clothing that was given to him as gifts, but this robe he liked.

My dad is a builder.

He had a deep passion for building machines. It was how he spent his evenings, often all of his free time. It was a life long commitment.

My dad at 16

In all honesty, I had resented this. I never understood why his personal time was spent on these projects. Sometimes my brothers and I felt secondary to his hobbies and work. He would monologue about his projects and career all through dinner. Mostly, it was the same set of stories every night. It had often felt he would rather talk about himself and his achievements, than the lives of his family.

I sat down at the table and poured a cup of coffee. He smiled. It wasn’t time to take his daily regimen of 14 pills which caused more harm than good. He was alert. He was himself at this moment. By mid day, this would change. Over the course of his treatment he had gone through different stages of grief. There was a sense of selfishness, anger, at times he was irrational. He was frustrated and scared.

“Hey dad, how ya feeling?”

He continued smiling.

“Im ok, I feel ok. Tell me about work, how is your team doing?”

Talking about work was our middle ground. He enjoyed being my mentor. Coaching me, helping me navigate through my career. It was where we knew we could relate to one another.

“Dad, I want to ask you something.”

He motioned for me to pour him another cup of coffee. So I did.

“You’ve never told me why you’re the way your are. You are a provider in every sense of the word, but some how there has always been a lack of empathy and awareness about you. I feel like I’ve never been able to connect with you, outside of your interests. I don’t understand why, but I need to understand.”

I felt anxious saying this. It felt cruel. He was no longer smiling. I continued to describe how it was growing up feeling a gap between us. Not understanding why I couldn’t relate to him. How my brothers and I felt he could be so selfish yet selfless at the same time.

“Ricky, time passes by so fast. I’ve never had the chance to tell you about how I grew up. I never found the opportunity to tell you. Growing up, we had nothing. I wasn’t taught how to talk to people. I didn’t know how to make friends. There wasn’t a support structure in our home. Tommy was out of control, I had to make sure he wasn’t hurting himself, or others. My sister was in denial of what was happening around her.”

Tommy was his little brother who we lost five years ago.

He began to tell me stories of a broken household, filled with pain, infidelity and abuse. His parents that were deceitful, not only to each other, but to their children as well.

“I played sports so I didn’t have to go home. My parents never came to watch me play a game or show interest in any aspect of my life. I was alone. We were alone.”

My dad was an accomplished athlete in high school in track, wrestling and football, all four years. His parents did not attend one event.

“I started building things when I was 14. I built boats, cars, anything that moved. The garage was where I could be alone with my thoughts. I wouldn’t have to worry about being ashamed or attacked.“

“It was my escape.”

He picked up a part that was on the table. It was a piston head. There were always parts scattered about the kitchen.

“I can control this. It can’t harm me. It doesn't embarrass me. I’m not afraid of this. I can make this work.”

He held the part in his hand and began to cry.

“It’s what helped me get through all of the sickness around me.”

He grabbed my hand. I was silent, all I wanted was for him to keep talking. I looked at his hands. The ones he had used to create so many things. They had so much history in them. Knicks and scars that represented so much.

“I wanted to make sure you and your brothers never had to go through what I did. You’ve all become good men, and I’ve loved watching you grow. I am so proud of each of you.”

I was standing up hugging him while he remained seated. Still holding my hand and the piston head in the other.

“I was a cashier at the grocery store when your mom came in, I knew I would be with her. I worked two jobs while in school and she supported me through it all. She was my friend. I’d never had this before your mother.”

My mom and dad were friends in high school but lost touch. They were reunited three years later by fate when she came into the grocery he was working at while in college. I’ve heard this story so many times, but unlike the rest, this story doesn’t change.

I realized that morning his monologues and stories weren’t deliberate or self-serving. He grew up in in a world where he had nothing to hold on to and desperately wanted to connect with us in the only way he knew how.

He built things in a garage throughout his entire childhood. It’s where he felt protected.

It was his escape.

I’ve spent the better part of the year watching a primitive form of medicine slowly poison him and my family. It tests your strength, your sanity and completely consumes you. It challenges your moral principles, and treatment becomes an ethical dilemma.

I compare chemotherapy to a blunt weapon.

I hated these drugs more than the disease itself. I watched loved ones slowly chip away. Mentally, physically and spiritually they began to break down and rebuild, only to crumble again. It‘s vicious. It‘s ruthless.

I am pieced together with fragments of my father. My work ethic, innate urge to create things to release tension in my life, even athletics. These all stem from his guidance and leadership.

That was our moment, and it will be with me forever. I‘ll always remember that morning, but most of all, I‘ll remember when faced with tragedy, my family turned inward and relied on each other for strength with unquestionable loyalty.

Live life, progress, proceed.