Father's Day; it comes and it goes. Most people enjoy it, some do not. You have your Father's Day dinner, everything is set up, and most important of all, you have your dad. Then after dinner, you may hang out for a while before you go to bed, or you could stay up all night. Either way, you still eventually forget after a couple years. The memories are discarded in your mind and thrown out, or are hard to remember. Such is not so for me, for something is missing.
It happened a while ago, but not too long ago. This is my first Father's Day without him, and I miss him. I'm writing this letter in honor of my father, who passed away October 22nd, 2008.
My dad was the most generous man I had ever met. He always gave things up and sacrificed things for other people. But then there were his little problems. He had many temper fits, and he was easily frustrated. I would listen for hours as he fought with my mom or sometimes other people, such as my arrogant older brother. Though after that, he apologized to all of us and explained why he was mad most of the time. His passions were playing baseball and fishing. But there was one passion above them all that he adored, and it was his job: flying airplanes. Yes, he was a pilot.
He would bring home all sorts of fun things from different countries. He called them 'Love Gifts'. He particularly gave them to me, as the youngest. But we cherished them all.
Then we found out July 31st, 2007.
Most of my life, my father had a tumor and didn't know it. It was seven centimeters long when he discovered he had it. The doctors gave him less than a month to live without doing chemotherapy and surgery, and possibly a little under a year with chemotherapy/surgery. But my father was scared to death of it. Our neighbor died from having important surgery, and he refused to have it.
He went to several doctors and all of them suggested surgery or chemotherapy. He continuously checked in with the doctors. They said it was getting worse.
Finally, he found a nutritionist who was willing to help. The nutritionist had him on fruit, vegetables, water, and carrot juice only. So basically, he was a vegan. But it was hard for my dad; he loved meat.
Since my dad survived for so long, most people at first thought that he had chemotherapy and everything went well for a while. No, such is not the case. He continued and never quit.
Eventually, during the last months of his life, he got acides. Acides is when fluid builds up in the stomach, and there's hardly any room for food. He would go every Wednesday to get the fluid drawn out of his body.
One week, he went there. The normal doctor that respected him and removed the fluid wasn't there, and so a different doctor came in. My father didn't want his fluid to be taken out by a different doctor, but the doctor convinced him to stay for a night and wait for the normal doctor.
He never came.
The doctor continued to convince my dad to stay. Soon, he gave in and took the drugs, took his 'B52bomb', which is what he called the coke. That week he slowly faded away, and on a Wednesday night he passed away.
I find it interesting that . . . my father, well, his line of family had heart problems. He never wanted to die of a heart problem. He wanted to die with a healthy heart. And that he did; his heart continued beating strongly for twenty seconds after he ceased breathing.
And that, my friends, is the story of my father's death.
Never take your parents for granted. My heart breaks when I see people yelling at their parents, saying they hate them, and they fully disrespect them. Some even wish for them to die. But what if you lost one of both of them forever?
Sincerely,
Mylo9810
