After fighting cancer for two years my father passed away today. We all knew it was coming. But I always hoped maybe somehow he would defeat it.
When I saw him the last time about a month ago, I barely recognized him. He had always been a large man, six feet tall and walked with a John Wayne swagger. A hard fighting, hard-drinking Irishman from Kansas City, Missouri. He had been reduced to a small old man, who couldn’t get out of bed. He struggled to stay awake, because he wanted to see his daughters.
I don’t have many memories of him. My parents divorced when I was 6. And for most my childhood from the time I was 9 until I was 20 I never saw him. Then one day he just found us, my sister and me. And after that we would see each other every few years. I’d call on the Father’s day and Christmas.
I may not have visited him often, I always knew he was out there. All I had to do was call him. Drive my kids down to see him. Now he won’t be there. I will miss his funny stories of being an other the road truck driver. He was funny, and could tell a great tale. I remember laughing so hard, I couldn’t breath.
He is survived by my step-mom Shirley. I admire the way she look care of him the last two years. She’s a great lady.
On our last visit I got to tell him I loved him. He held out hands and didn’t want to let us go. I left knowing I would never see him again. Gratified that he was comforted by his daughters coming to see him.