Expat Pilot — Rogue Father — Trans Child
Before my trans daughter, Avery (formerly Antonio), took her life, there was my dad. Both were strong and opinionated characters, yet each was a distinct variety.
My father, the man who first introduced me to a world of theatricality and oversized personalities, inherited his flair from his mother, a Hollywood actress who once stood in for Jean Harlow. She was a Meiklejohn, a name that now whispers through the forgotten corners of Hollywood history. There, in that star, a piece of our family history remains etched into the sidewalk, a silent testament to our little piece of Hollywood.
Both my father and Avery could take up a lot of writing space. Avery, whose life was tragically brief, has already claimed her share of words here on Medium. My father who is 82 would be a thick book and I am often told by people that his story might be a cross between a Hemingway novel or Hunter S. Thompson book. He seems to have planted the first seeds in the tangled garden of my life, the root system from which everything else has grown.
It can be tough to tell stories about my father in the world of today because he was an inappropriate type of guy — mostly, but not limited to women. His generation’s brand of impropriety doesn’t fit so neatly anymore. The stories once told with a wink and a nudge, now feel jarring, out of step with a world that demands a reckoning with the past — with good reason.
He extended this impropriety to his daughters, though not in the way one might fear. It wasn’t physical, nor overtly sexual. Rather, he treated us as confidantes, teenage boys swapping locker-room gossip. He’d comment on women’s bodies, their attractiveness, their desirability, as if we were peers instead of his children. Those early years were formative, and I internalized this, associating womanhood with a superficial value system.
I endured this all my life, and as I grew older, I began to call him out on it, but it didn’t stop him. I take solace in knowing that younger women today are standing up to men like him more often, though it’s difficult to explain why we didn’t before.
But I won’t dwell on that now. This is about his final days — and Avery. Mostly, it’s about atonement, about reconciling the man I perceived him to be with the possibility that he did, in fact, grow and change later in life.
My father was a pilot, not of the commercial variety, but a rebel who owned his own air charter service. He navigated the California skies, ferrying the living and the dead, the high rollers and the heartbroken. Ambulances, corpses, gamblers bound for Tahoe’s glittering casinos. Occasionally, he’d brush shoulders with the era’s icons, Sinatra, Sonny & Cher, their lives briefly intersecting with his in the cramped cabin of his plane.
Later, after selling his air charter service, he moved to Nome, Alaska and took up work as a bush pilot navigating the vast, unforgiving terrain. But even the most seasoned pilots can fall prey to the whims of nature. A crash landing in a remote corner of the Alaskan wilderness left him injured and alone, his survival dependent on his resourcefulness and the plane’s emergency transmitter. He dug a snow cave, fashioned a makeshift shelter from the wreckage, and tended to his own broken nose with nothing but ice and sheer will. The crash left its mark, a visible reminder carved right into the nose on his face.
Upon his “so called” retirement, he moved to Costa Rica with his 3rd wife who was from that country. He eventually wound up on a little island right off the Pacific side where he had a small landing strip for whatever plane he happened to own at the time. He and his wife surrounded themselves with stray dogs, birds, cats, and occasionally had to rescue these animals from the coils of a boa constrictor.
More recently, he came up from Costa Rica for one of his many annual visits to the U.S. It was about four or five months before Avery took her life. This seems to be how I gauge time now — before and after Avery’s passing.
He came to the U.S. to visit friends, girlfriends (his Costa Rican wife stayed home), and catch up on doctors’ appointments for the various ailments of an 82-year-old. On this visit, a bump had appeared on the right side of his neck, ominously growing. The diagnosis was grim — cancer. It needed to be removed, or it would kill him. My dad had faced down plane crashes, fleeing countries and returning to those same countries for both the help, and the thrill of it. This time, he was up against something that posed a real risk, but he couldn’t outrun it.
At 82 (or maybe it was 81 at the time), it wasn’t an easy surgery. Removing this growth required a strong heart, which he didn’t have, mostly due to ignoring doctors who insisted he needed a heart bypass. That procedure could have bought him more time, allowing for further surgeries to stave off the inevitability of death just a little longer.
The doctors refused to operate on the growth until his heart was taken care of, but the tumor in his throat was visibly growing each day. He stayed in the U.S. for a few months, bickering and complaining about everyone, adamantly refusing the heart surgery. He became his usual agitated self, convinced that the doctors were arguing and fighting on his behalf. I spoke to these doctors; they seemed perfectly sane, but from his perspective, they were the crazy ones.
He decided to head back to the island, seeking peace with his loving, patient wife. She would take care of him, and he would be home with his beloved dogs, cats, and birds — far from the “money-hungry” healthcare bureaucracy of the United States. Maybe the socialized medicine of Costa Rica wasn’t as bad as he had once declared.
Traveling back to Costa Rica alone made his attentive wife nervous. She insisted, in Spanish — her only language — that someone needed to accompany him to ensure he made it safely. My sister was chosen for the task, given her ability to take paid time off work.
Their journey back became the infamous trip from hell. They flew out of Reno towards Houston, the first stop before leaving the country. I received updates from my sister as they inched closer to their destination. She would then turn around and fly back home, having navigated the chaotic airport scene with him.
Her texts read:
“We arrived in Houston. So far it looks good for getting on the plane,” she wrote anxiously, hoping for the best and eager to return to her peaceful life away from the constant drama that was our father.
“I think we will make it,” the next text read.
“The pilot got sick and they are looking for a replacement.”
“Ok, we are on the plane.”
“Would you believe they canceled the flight!” Her follow-up text read.
“Oh no — why?” I responded.
“No real explanation. We were actually on the plane, and they said it is canceled — get off the plane.”
More texts followed about their lodging for the night, and my dad becoming a “basket case.” This was the routine when in his company — moving from place to place, arguing, making friends, asking people to speak louder (years of flying with unprotected ears had left us all a bit hard of hearing), and generally causing a scene everywhere he went. This chaos was part of his charm, if you chose to see it that way and could ignore the accompanying turmoil.
On this trip back, he declared his island home to be heaven. Before leaving for the U.S., he had complained incessantly about the heat and lack of internet access. But now, facing the end, it truly was his paradise.
He wanted to be there, despite the doctors’ warnings that he would die if his condition was left untreated. According to him, that was fine — he needed to be home with the animals and the woman he loved, who would care for him.
Having made it back to his island paradise, he was happy for a while. He was treated for his cancer and given morphine for the pain, which led to some of the best conversations I’ve had with him. In that state, he was a calmer version of himself.
As his condition deteriorated, and we braced ourselves for his impending death, Avery took her life. I poured my grief into several chapters here on Medium, seeking to purge myself of the pain. It helped, but as I’ve said before, there will always be a hole in my heart.
I delayed telling my father about Avery. If he was going to die soon, why burden him with the news? But as weeks passed, and he continued to live, I realized I couldn’t avoid it forever.
Three weeks after Avery’s death, as I was preparing for her memorial service, I finally called my father. My sister, who had been covering for me, insisted he needed to know.
When I called, he was glad to hear from me and immediately launched into his usual monologue about his life. I had to interrupt him.
“Dad, Antonio committed suicide,” I blurted out.
He let out a loud cry and hung up. When I called back, I couldn’t get through. My sister later told me he had called her, as if to convey the news with a sense of urgency, hoping she would rush to my side.
Eventually, I reached him. He was sobbing and asked how it happened, repeating, “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” as if he felt responsible.
“Dad, there’s more I haven’t told you,” I said, mustering a firmness I had learned from him. “Antonio had come out as a female and was transitioning. She was known as Avery. I hadn’t told you because it was somewhat new, and I didn’t know if you would accept it.”
He responded, “Avery, Avery — I want to see her. Send me a picture — I need to see her. I wish I knew Avery.” Later, after seeing a photo, he told me she was beautiful.
I was shocked and elated by his immediate acceptance and understanding. Close to death, he seemed to have tapped into a deeper connection — a love that underlies everything. He was not the man I had believed him to be.
He was more than just a source of irritation and adventure in my life. He was more than a mere source of irritation and adventure. He was a part of something larger, his life a performance in the Theater of the Absurd. In this moment of clarity, I saw our shared history shift, its meaning reframed, absurdity giving way to a deeper truth.
He was more than mere theater — more than surly, more than cantankerous, more than a pilot, more than a father. He was much of what molded and shaped me, whether I liked it or not. In those final weeks, as his body withered and his voice grew faint, a strange metamorphosis occurred. The man I had known as a difficult, demanding father became something more, something transcendent; a soul stripped bare by suffering, revealing a depth of compassion I had never before witnessed.
Is there redemption for the sins of our fathers? I don’t know if I will ever find the answer without examining places I may not want to go. His roots are my roots, and I must confront both the gifts and burdens that branch out from this system, which begins far beneath our feet and forms the foundation of our lives.
As of this writing, he is still alive, clinging to life on his beloved island, dreaming of a final return to the States, his animals in tow.
Update: My father passed away on May 19, 2022
Here’s a link to a story written by Avery that I found in her Google Docs…
