This time of year is always hard for me

The anniversary of my father's death is fast approaching. He passed away June 17, 2003. I was on vacation in Seattle with my now ex husband visiting his brother. I hesitated to even go, but the tickets were bought way before my dad's health slipped even closer to the abyss. And my mother convinced me that if he was going to pass away, he would do it whether I stayed in TX or went on my vacation.

I saw him the weekend before I left. The weekend before Father's Day. I took him his early Father's Day gift. I set on the second twin bed of what used to be my bedroom, but had been turned into the sick ward with a hospital bed for my dad to spend his days. He looked horrible. Swollen, grey, but with a hint of jaundice. Diabetes combined with congestive heart failure is a horrible, slow and painful death.

He called me Shirley and accused me of smoking a cigarette several times throughout the visit. He was not lucid once.

My dad and I were never close. I'd like to believe it was because he was too conservative and I too much of a free thinker. But what it really boils down to, the worst parts about him are ingrained in me and I battle(d) with them constantly. We butted heads a lot.

After the day long visit, my ex and I decide to leave. My dad actually got up from his bed to walk us to the car. He slowly put one swollen ankle and foot into a house shoe and then even slower put the other foot in. It was painful to even watch, so I cannot imagine what it must have felt like. He gripped his cane and walked down the long hallway to the garage door while Richard(the ex) held his other arm.

When we made it to the garage door and stepped outside, he paused, turned and looked at Richard and very rationally spoke, "Take good care of her. She's a good girl."

It was the first and last time I ever heard my dad actually say something nice about me to someone else. Now, he may have said it in private to others, but if he did, I never knew. I always thought he hated me or was disappointed in me. I guess I was wrong.

I left for Seattle 3 days later. My dad died a week and half later. I'm pretty sure I knew the moment he died. When I got the call from my sister, it woke me from a sleep where I had dreamed he had come to me and said goodbye and to "not be stupid." That's what he would tell us. "Don't be stupid." I guess that was his way of saying, "make good choices."

I wish we had been friends.