Today would have been my dad’s 78th birthday.
Last week, my Mom and I hiked down to a quiet beach and released what remained of his ashes into the waters of the Pacific. We sat for a long time, watched the tide and his ashes, as they stubbornly refused to dissolve into the surrounding sand.
My dad died on Dec. 19, 2019 from a quick and brutal illness at his home in Rhode Island. After he was diagnosed, I was able to travel and see him several times before his death. When the pandemic started, I often said that I was glad that he passed away before it began: Covid-19 would have made it impossible for us to spend time together in his final days.
Our relationship was strained for at least a decade before his death “for reasons that are too embarrassing for both of us to explain,” as I’ve written before. But we began to build back before he got sick, and his terminal illness helped us find a new kindness and understanding. If just briefly, we had the kind of relationship I now desperately miss.
After the last 18 months, I’m committed to spending as much time as I can with people I love, even when it’s not easy. So last week, my mom and I rented a house with a pool in Palm Springs, and spent our days tanning, swimming, and talking about our family, feelings, and the events of our lives we had never discussed.
She left on Monday morning to go back to New York. When I dropped her off at the airport, we hugged with a tenderness we’ve never allowed each other before. There were tears, and hesitation to let go, even though we’ll see each other again in just a few short weeks.
And all I could think of was how much I wanted to do that with my dad. So no, I’m no longer “glad” that he passed away when he did.
Happy birthday, dad. I miss the relationship we barely got to have.
