It's been 3 weeks and still doesn't seem real, even though I was there when it happened. Three weeks ago today, my father passed away. It happened so quickly, it felt like a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn't. I find myself wanting to text him about a: storm, joke, crazy news story, or Detroit Tigers game, only to realize there will be no response.
The truth is he had been ill for a while, yet we always tried to remain hopeful. Lung issues exacerbated to the point where his doctors recommended going through the process for a lung transplant, and what an arduous process it was - 'arduous' doesn't even do it proper justice. I keep trying to tell myself he's no longer suffering, yet it's difficult to not ask the "What if?" questions, and wonder if something could have been done to have elongated his life, or to have at least allowed him to live his final years in a healthier, happier state.
My dad and I had a rather atypical relationship, as over the years, we were more like best friends than father and son. We butted heads at times, but that was largely due to how alike we were in most respects; and when push came to shove, we always had each other's backs. He was a man of few words at times, yet his actions always spoke loudly.
Even though I was there to help take care of him during his final few months, perhaps due to selective-memory, all the flashbacks I've had of him since his passing were from before he got sick a few years ago. That's how I'd like to keep it, and I'm sure he'd feel the same way. I remember my dad taking me to my first rock concert, on December 22, 1992 - Def Leppard, at the Civic Auditorium, in Omaha. I remember my dad taking me to see the film "Seven" when I was just 14. I remember my dad taking me to Joe Louis Arena on December 26, 1996, to witness Sergei Fedorov scoring 5 goals in an overtime win for the Detroit Red Wings over the Washington Capitals. I remember staying up with my dad to watch Game 3 of the 2018 World Series, where the Los Angeles Dodgers defeated the Boston Red Sox, 3-2, in a record-breaking 18 innings and 7 hours, 20 minutes. I remember my dad continually making a complete fool out of himself for a laugh. I remember my dad continually giving to others, because they needed money more than he did, and it was the right thing to do.
Unless it pertained to math, my father was never much of a teacher, yet I still learned a great deal from him. He taught me being true to yourself is of greater importance than everyone liking you. He taught me money isn't worth much, if there aren't people you value in your life. He taught me words don't say a whole lot, if actions consistently run contrary to them. He taught me people can't be judged by their skin color, orientation, creed, etc., but by their character. While he was probably too modest to ever realize this, the world would be a much better place if there were more of my dad around. You'll be dearly missed. Rest in peace, dad. I love you.
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