It’s
January 4th and another birthday. Just like Father’s Day and
September 10th each year, I play Kenny Rogers (sometimes Willie
Nelson) while I drive in my car for the day. Most drives home, whether from
work or from a long run, come with a few, or many tears. At night, I pick out a
fine bottle of wine, usually a Cabernet Sauvignon. Sometimes I mix it up and
will try a Bordeaux blend that I think he might enjoy. I pour two glasses, one for me, one for my
father. We toast. I will drink each
glass: one sip from mine, one from his, until they are gone.
I think in the early years, it was
just sorrow, just this overwhelming sense of loss, of something I wanted to
retrieve, but couldn’t. It shifted to gratitude along the way: a toast to my father,
to his memory, to the times we had together, to the ways in which he enriched
and molded my life. I still cry on his
birthday, on Father’s Day, on the day he died. I still cry on other random days
when something sparks his memory. But I try to be more reflective and more
grateful. I’m not sure there’s much else to do. I can’t bring him back. And
ultimately, sitting in sorrow would not be enough.
Over the past year, aside from the
usual days and the typical memories that flood me from time to time, my father
has been more present with me. It’s not something you think should happen five
years after he has passed away. The memories should fade, the grief should
resolve, life should tick on. And it does move on, but he remains. I’ve grown
to know some aspects of my father I never knew as I connected with a platoon member
of his from Vietnam. New photos came in, new tales of his life before I was
born, a glimpse into the everyday life in the most horrific of circumstances.
It’s something my dad rarely talked about during his life, though I’m sure it
defined much of his life.
And then, there’s this running
thing. Yes, I am admittedly defined by myself as a runner. Boston has been a
special race in my heart. Returning to New England, being with my family there,
that is all part of the race for me, but it also evokes so many memories of my
father. And it didn’t seem that I was going to return to Boston for 2017. Well,
that’s where my father comes back. I was graciously offered the opportunity to
run for Project Purple. I would not know about pancreatic cancer, save for the
abysmal stats you learn as a medical student. I would not know about pancreatic
cancer, save for my father. Five years ago, my father passed away after a short
and painful battle with pancreatic cancer. It lived up to its reputation as the
worst cancer to have, the one with the lowest survival odds. And I saw it
firsthand.
So, my father will bring me back to
Boston this April. In his honor, I will run. In his honor, I will continue to raise
funds to fight pancreatic cancer through Project Purple. In his honor, I hope someone else can have
another birthday with her father when pancreatic cancer no longer spells a
death sentence. But for now, I’ll listen to Lucille, have memories of riding in
the silver Corvette as daddy’s girl, and drink a fine glass of cab with my
father. Happy 71st birthday!
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