Like every daddy's girl since the dawn of time, I think my father was the best and most perfect father ever. While he was not always the best and most perfect person to others, he was to me. He made mistakes and regretted his actions like any human. But to me, he was more than human. He was my superhero.
He was the guy who drove back to McDonald's circa 1988 when my cheeseburger Happy Meal was burger-less. (Legit, it was bun and condiments. Step up yo' game, folks.) And later that year managed to get me to be casually racist in a fine dining Japanese establishment for his own amusement.
He was the guy who tried to convince me my grandmother (mother's mother) was a witch. A real, spell casting, broom flying witch. He sent me around the house trying to locate said flying broom too (no luck. she either hid it too well or isn't a witch).
He was the guy who lovingly (and annoyedly...is that a word? #don'tcare #YOLO) pulled prickers out of my bare feet in Hawai'i while I screamed and cried. He was also the guy that warned me not to walk on the grass without my shoes on earlier the same day because I'd get prickers in my feet.
He was the guy who saved all year on his workman's comp to fly me out for the summer.
The guy who tried to calm me down after a got old cactus needles jammed in my fingers and my friend's cousin yanked them out with her tweezer nails.
The guy who taught me not to hide things from him because he'd find out and be more disappointed that I lied (that Beavis and Butthead pog slammer was NOT worth it).
He taught me about his home, his family, and his perspective on life which was always so vastly different from my own. Little did he know, it was the nights we stayed up talking that I treasured the most.
He was always proud of me, even when he didn't understand what I was doing (like Girls State or my work in geology). And even though he wasn't book smart he never made me feel like where I came from would hold me back or like I was too smart for my place. He was weird and encouraged me to be weird as well. The one who encouraged me to get piercings (even if it started out as a way to piss my mom off) and just be myself.
He was the man I spent my summers taking care of when he was sick or healing. The man I worried about the other 10 months of the year. The one that as an adult I should have called more or tried to see more. The one I offered a kidney to but he declined. I should have tried harder and fought harder but I knew he was just as stubborn as me and he wouldn't budge.
I picked "Landslide" by Fleetwood Mac as the song I would dance with him to at the wedding. Stevie Nicks often dedicates it to her father and we both love/d Fleetwood. At first, I couldn't listen to it without a complete breakdown. Over the year it has become better, until today. It was on at work and I felt like all the happiness was sucked out of the room. Like J.K. Rowling was here with a Dementor. My chest hurts, like I am missing a piece of me. I worked hard all year to fill that hole, but I suppose it never goes away. I told The Husband I felt like nothing would ever be the same after I found out he passed. I was right.
Nothing is the same. I am not the same. Not better. Not worse. Just not the same.
The next week will be tough. There will be tears and guilt and blame. Saying goodbye is bittersweet. In the words of Big Head Todd and the Monsters: "It's bitterweet. More sweet than bitter, Bitter than sweet. It's a bittersweet surrender."
He is in a better place. One where kidney function and amputated limbs can't hold him back. I hope you finally got the black legs, Daddy. Run fast and jump high.
The dream team in like... 1986
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