My dad would have been 71 years old today. This day, more than any other, brings sadness and longing. I don’t so much mourn the day on which he died, because his death took away his pain and suffering. Instead I mourn the day we would have celebrated together because of the joy and happiness I’m missing.
When I was a tween, we would typically celebrate my dad’s birthday with a float trip. I have lots of memories of floats on the Black River and bond fires late into the night. I don’t so much remember what we would do to commemorate his birthday while I was in high school, but I vividly remember the first birthday he had while I was in college. He turned 50 that year and I had been at school for a little over a week—went early for sorority rush. My mom had a party for him. I had bought him a figurine of girl that was titled “Daddy, I’ll never fill your shoes.” I called during the party and listened as he opened the box and then got quiet. His voice cracked as he said, “Thank you sissy.” I, of course, lost it. After college, I made that we would celebrate his birthday the way he wanted every year. Usually that involved fried chicken from somewhere and ice cream. When I lived in the City that would often mean Hodacks and Ted Drewes. When we moved back home I would have everyone to my house.
It was my dining where we celebrated his last birthday. My mom had gotten a cake decorated with a guy in a red pick up truck with dogs in it since my dad had seemingly adopted Jeffrey’s pooches. I brought home fried chicken and made vegetables. We didn’t yet know the pain and suffering, heartache and tears the next eight months would bring. Dad knew he had a chest xray with a spot, but he hadn’t told me yet. That being said, even if we had known, I can’t believe we would have celebrated any differently.
I made everyone get together to celebrate the first birthday after his death. I was 34 weeks pregnant and in the middle of being sued by a wack-job former parent, so no one argued with me. I held myself together for most of the day, but it was a chore. And while we tried to be convivial, it just wasn’t happening. Since then I haven’t involved anyone else in my remembrances. Last year I hit a KFC drive through for chicken legs complete with a full sugared Pepsi. My system revolted from that shock.
So here we are, it’s been six years since the last time I celebrated with him. I don’t know who around me knows that today would be his birthday. (Last year mom let it pass without a mention.) As I wonder what I do to honor this special day, I have decided that it does not need to be an overt gesture, instead it’s this: I will continue to work to live my life in a manner that would make him proud. My dad once told me that he measured his success as a parent by whom my brothers and I were as adults. I want him to know he was the best.
