I miss my Dad
On days like today, it really hits me. The way my Dad smelled after at least five generous sprays of cologne—only the finest fragrances options on his bathroom counter. His full head of salt and pepper hair perfectly styled with a round brush and blow dryer. His favorite polo t-shirt, either blue or pink, and an ironed pair of guess denim jeans; he always took longer to get ready than I did.
As a toddler, I would beg him to take me to the beach with him, so I could feed the pelicans and eat curly fries with my little legs covered in sand. I had him wrapped around my finger back then and until his last days on earth. We listened to The Eagles, Credence Clearwater Revival, Bryan Adams, and Melissa Ethridge in Miami traffic for hours as he played the drums on the steering wheel and air guitar during "Hotel California." Movies were our favorite, and blockbuster trips were a weekly event we enjoyed with strawberry-flavored Frutopia and popcorn on his green leather sofa. Our arguments were intense, both equally hard-headed and intelligent. Neither of us liked to admit we were wrong, and we could debate our point for hours. Our fights never last long, though. He inherently had trouble letting conflict go with other people, but I was his little princess, and no matter how crazy I made him, that would never change. Including the time he threatened to get his gun and chased two boys out of the house because he didn't like how close they were sitting to my friend and I.
Fast forward to December 2019. My Dad was living in Argentina and received the news that my cancer was back via WhatsApp. He sounded strong on the phone, but I know it hurt far deeper than he allowed his unshaken voice to show. I told him that all my doctors were recommending an amputation several inches above the knee this time, and I had decided to move forward with the surgery, hoping it would give me the best chance of avoiding metastasis.
Since the day I was first diagnosed, he supported and cared for me in ways I didn't yet know he was capable of. He drove me to countless appointments, hung IV antibiotics for me at home after I was discharged with a post-op infection, comforted me when I felt weak, and let me squeeze his hand when I felt pain. Now there was an ocean between us and a virus circulating that would shut down borders within months. He relied on my phone calls and blog posts for updates on my recovery and never missed an opportunity to tell me how incredibly proud he was of my strength and decision to share my journey with the world. I never felt more loved by him than I did during the last seven years of his life. I am thankful for every facetime, selfie, text message, and Facebook chat we had while we were apart. I'm thankful for his eyes and tan skin I get to see each time I look in the mirror. And I am endlessly thankful that I still remember how shamelessly he laughed when something was truly funny. Pure joy escaped from his mouth with such force that it echoed across the house as he held his belly. What I wouldn't give to sit next to him again during a George Carlin comedy special. What I wouldn't give to hear his last words to me one more time " I love you from this world to the next."
Dad, if you're up there reading this. I love you too. I feel your presence every day when the cardinals sing in my yard and when I land in your favorite spot on the couch. When I spray on my perfume, I remember the scent of your Davidoff Cool Water filling the air. When I shop for jeans, I think of your Guess denim collection. When I look in the mirror, I see your face staring back at me. I will be your princess from this world to the next.
