Dear Dad,

Today I was dusting and found the book I was going to give you for your 60th birthday. It was a book of funny photos and I paused and looked through it. Then Abi came to me and asked what it was, and I said it was Grandpa’s birthday gift. She has your sense of humor. At age 12 she spends too many hours looking at funny videos on the computer and laughing and calling me over endless times to see. She used to call you over to see, too, when you were here.

Earlier today Abi finally polished off Adantino in time for Piano Guild last month. I can still see you sitting next to her, still hear your voice encouraging her that she could do it, just break the piece down into smaller pieces, take each note at its own face value, then put them back together again. Today she pulled it off and played it beautifully, and was so proud of herself. I could hear your voice saying, “I knew you could do it! I just needed YOU to know could do it!” And then you would have followed it up with how this would apply to her whole life. She, at age 12 would have rolled her eyes, but she will carry that confidence you instilled inside her with her and it will make her walk taller. Since you were not there to say those words, the same words you have told me countless times in my own eye-rolling stage, I told Abi those words myself.

On Friday, Nitara will dress up in her Amelia Earhart costume, complete with too-big leather jacket, winged snow hat, and her daddy’s swim goggles holding the hat in place. She will recite facts about this brave woman who was obstinate in her ability to keep trying in a man’s world. You would have made time to come to the Third Grade Living History Museum to see your grand-daughter and you would have been proud and a little tickled.

You raised me to be an obstinate woman, too. Your methods were harsh and I lived with a great deal of bitterness over this for many years. I felt pushed, pressured, deprived of a normal childhood in many ways. But you were a single dad who became a dad way too young and gave up college to have me. You said your life had become shit and you were a postal worker instead of a doctor. You were desperate for me not to make the same mistakes as you. You wanted me to finish my education. You pushed me to become a track star so that I could have a scholarship. You made me do summer homework so I would know how to study. I was resentful and I often hated you for it. Why could I not spend all day relaxing like my friends? Why the early curfew when I got older? Why did you need to make me so tough, to raise me as a Marine the way you were raised by your dad? You did not spare the rod. Oh you certainly did not spare the rod and I welts to prove it. You did not sugar-coat anything. You told me you were making me tough. Behind your harsh actions, I see now, was fear. And that fear was born out of love.

Twelve years ago, you held newborn Abi in your arms and you were so proud. And we talked as two adults. We became good friends. And I told you how hurt I was about some of the things you said and did to me, and you said you were sorry in your own proud, round-about way many times over the years. I’m glad we were able to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I’m glad the last twelve years we were able to be good friends as two adults. Forgiveness is a powerful thing. So is regret.

My regret is that I didn’t call 911 or just drive you to the hospital. You were so stubborn! You said you can handle the asthma, you know more than the doctors, you have had it your whole life. You didn’t want to go to the hospital and that was that. I am a nurse, but what do I know, right? I called you every day to check in with you. You promised to see your doctor and tell him about your asthma attacks. My last ten text messages to you were about going in to get your asthma treated at the hospital. You treated me like I was nagging but I should have just somehow forced you to go to the hospital. I could hear your breathlessness on the phone and I begged you to go in over the next couple of weeks. But you said no, you could handle it. You just needed time. Famous last words, which I have read over and over on my phone.

Your heart stopped and was restarted eleven times. I then learned from your family doctor that you did not tell him how bad your asthma was lately. And you never told us how very bad your heart had become. And that you decided not to get a stent put in. On the way to the hospital that last day, it started to snow. In Phoenix, Arizona. Real snow, thick fluffy clumps of it so that I had to turn on my windshield wipers. By the time we were in the parking lot at the hospital the girls’ tears had turned to whoops and hollers as they spun around with arms out wide and tongues stuck out to catch the flakes. Dad, were you trying to make your girls smile? Were you sorry you did not get help? We slipped and slid our way into the hospital and the laughter stopped. Taking the girls to say goodbye to you was hands-down the hardest thing I have ever experienced in my life. And I did not have an easy life, which you well know. Hearing the girls wail in such deep pain, hold your hand and hug you and you could not squeeze their hands back or tell them it would be okay. Because it was not okay. Not at all okay.

You had a breathing tube down your throat, tubes and wires all over the place, and I was so mad at you for causing this pain to my girls. You could have at least bought some time for us to say goodbye. Sometimes I think you were slowly committing suicide. Between the carelessly uncontrolled diabetes and weight gain, the undisclosed heart problem, the asthma that you “could handle.” You have had dark moods your whole life. Were you depressed again? Were you listening to those talk shows too much again? Did you not at least care enough about the feelings of those who loved you so much? To spare me the pain of calling my 90 year old grandparents to tell them their son was on life support?

You thought being a postal worker was nothing special, but so many of your co-workers showed up to pay their respects that they filled the chapel, spilled out into the halls and then into the parking lot. You would not have believed it. Well, Dad, I don’t know how to end this letter gracefully, but then you didn’t end gracefully either. Just know I miss you and so do the girls, so, so much. And you were better, smarter, and more generous than you thought you were. I only wish you could have forgiven yourself and loved yourself as much as I forgave and loved you.

DS, age 39