Hey Dad

Perhaps it is because it is still fresh, or maybe it is because I just went to the the doctors and had to get a MRI (a tale for another day), but I thought it was time to share with you.

My dad died. I am probably going to write about this a lot. Or maybe not at all. Just this one time. I am notorious for starting something and not finishing; the classic epitome of over promising and underachieving. This isn't going to be some sad story. Or maybe it will. But I need to remember everything about the last five months. And I need to remember it in laughter. Because that was my dad, a mass of lightheartedness and laughter. Even through the pain, the endless hospital stays, and countless procedures, my dad still managed to joke and laugh with his family.

The quick wit and snark was strong too.

They told us that he had dementia. To a daughter who prides herself on being remembered as the favorite, this was a fucking nightmare. (Yes guys, this was all about me.) I will get more in to that later.  Maybe it was the pride that nagged him. Being talked to like an invalid by a man several decades younger in a lab coat didn't sit well with Dad. The long drawn out sounds of "misssssttterrr Aaaanntttooonio. What is today's date?" or "whhooooo is the pressssident?"; the latter of which he never really grasped as we all agreed that the truth was too much for the old man. When the doctor would dare to ask his name he would stick his tongue out, respond with "ice cream" or "bingo" throwing the medical team in to a frenzy. Or the time that the nurse attempted to be friendly, sharing the fact that her mother shared the same birth date as my father, only for him to respond "what the fuck do I care".

In the end, he demanded his cream of wheat be buttered and slathered in maple syrup, followed by copious glasses of milk drank like it was IPA winner at the Great American Beer Festival.

This is not a long post, just a post to remember my Dad.

Antonio

I tell anyone that will listen so many things about you.

I tell them how you loved to dance, that my first memories are of you in the kitchen doing the twist, and carrying me to the tunes of Fats Domino and Ramon Ayala. You still tap those feet despite using a cane and the walker. 

I whistle for the babe, the same way you whistled at my mom. 

I repeat the story of you and my Padrino, that night before his son's wedding in Mexico. I tell them of how drunk you both were, the rose that you bought, or maybe it was my Padrino, and the Mariachi serenade you sang to each other. I laugh at how you both were too hungover to have any drinks at the wedding. 

 I talk about the way I am more your daughter, that I took after you, despite you not being my biological father. 

I describe the days at the ranch, the animals that we had, the gun that you taught me to shoot.

I boast of the bowling trophies, and how you made me a mini bowling practice set in the backyard so that I could be just you. I still remember the little ruby red ball with my initials that matched your big red bowling ball.

I describe the morning breakfasts at the bowling lane diner, how we would take our own cloth napkins, leaving them stained with ketchup. Remember how we giggled when we gave them to mom to wash, how irritated she would be with us. 

I laugh at the days you were trying to teach me how to drive, and remind myself of the day you taught me to ride that purple bike. 

I tell them how lucky I am that I got to call you dad, that I got you as my father in the best time of your life. 

I remind them all, the friends, the readers, the followers on twitter, that you survived that Christmas day. That you will remain my dad for many years to come, that you are a bull, a giant of a man. 

I tell them you are my dad.