88. Barcelona

Date: July 11, 2002

Age: 25

Barcelona has been great, and the Prado in Madrid was really good. We also had many different kinds of Paella.

Love, Dad and H

Last Friday, my brothers, Dad, H and I had paella for dinner in Miami. Twice my father told us that when he and H visited Barcelona, they had paella every night--but this place from where we bought the paella in Miami was "better than all of them."

Later that night on the plane going home, C said to me, "I thought the paella was good, but nothing spectacular." I agreed. My mom's paella is much better. He thought so, too.

So, my dad's physical condition:

Despite supposedly receiving confirmation that he's living on borrowed time, he is much stronger than when we saw him in March. He moves slowly, but he can walk on his own (sometimes using a walker). He has an appetite. He gets through morning to night with only a short nap in between. He bought himself a new Cadillac, with features he couldn't stop raving about, even though he leaves the driving up to H. ("Not that I'll be around long to use it," he apparently told C, and we found his fatalist attitude humorous). We went out to dinner, saw Star Trek, even went to the zoo. That last outing was strange--the zoo was his idea, and pushing your father in a rented wheelchair while little camp kids are running all around in a frenzy over the tigers was unsettling. We didn't see much of the zoo, because we got a call from H saying to come home, the doctor called, Dad needed another transfusion of platelets. The transfusion he had received two days earlier was supposed to last him for ten days, but that wasn't happening.

C thought the trip went well, because Dad seemed in such good spirits. He wants to come up for a Mets game this summer if he's well enough. It was a collective moment to look forward to. Dad was talkative, regaling us with stories. And then I slowly became aware of something that C and B were completely oblivious to, and that's when the trip went all to hell, from my perspective.

All the stories Dad told were about B and C's childhood. Nothing in relation to when I was a kid.

The three of us accepted a long time ago--at least in our minds, if not our hearts--that our Dad never acknowledges his life before H. So why now, has he chosen to wax nostalgic from C and B's early years?

I think it had to do with location. C and B spent their childhoods in Brooklyn and Miami. Except for one year in Miami, I lived in Delaware. My dad cannot identify with Delaware, despite having lived there for eighteen years, but has much to say about Brooklyn and Miami. So I got to hear lots of stories about when my brothers were young. Hell, my dad even talked about their mother's brother and father.

My brothers were able to initiate many of these memories, playing off each other with intros of "remember when..." I'd sit there mute at the dinner table eating that goddamn paella, hearing stories from before I was born. I couldn't even grasp how to throw in my own "remember when" story. I was sitting in the middle of a boys club, and no girls were allowed.

I don't take issue with my brothers for this. As soon as I unleashed my anger at the airport at the end of my trip, they understood what I was talking about. They also noted that our dad exercised some revisionist history, too--in some of the stories he told, their mother was a part of the scenery, but he erased her entirely. Also, B pointed out that when we visited in March, he set up Dad's Christmas present--a digital photo frame that presented a slide show of his kids. This trip, he found the frame had been stored away again. (I told B, "Maybe if you replace the pictures of your kids with photos of Dad's new car, he'd leave it up.") So it's not as if Dad has taken a sudden, newfound interest in their lives but not mine.

They assured me it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with how disengaged and fucked up our father is.

That may be. I certainly didn't cause him to be that way. But I also can't help but feeling that I'm also at fault for being born a female. I don't think he holds women in very high regard and doesn't understand--or care--that some things are just not acceptable. (Note to fathers: don't use the word 'cunt' with your daughter when describing a woman you don't like, ever.)

After I said my piece at the airport, there were a few seconds of silence. Then from C:

"Still, you've got to admit, it was a better trip than the last one, right?"

That was pretty funny.

I don't want to visit anymore. I don't want to be H's support system when Dad's gone. A few good friends told me I was being a good daughter while I was visiting, but now I just want to be the bad, bratty daughter and be done with all this.

No postcard today.

My brother called last night after 10pm. I just knew, this would have to be about dad.

First it was a matter of establishing what both of us already knew. I had spoken to Dad on Saturday, when he received my Father's Day card, and having found out he was ineligible for the trials in Tampa and Baltimore, he was back on a cocktail of drugs that had helped him about before, only mixed differently. That's what we both knew.

C filled me in on what happened today: daily blood transfusions necessary in order to survive. There's a 1 in 20 chance this drug cocktail will better his prognosis. There was other information too--I didn't process it all--because then C got to, "he has weeks to months to live."

I knew someday a prognosis of a fixed time was coming--and that our dad may have known one all along, but wasn't revealing it--but to finally hear it, it seemed unbelievable. Yes, all signs have pointed to this is where he's going. This was all expected, on some level.

C says Dad was upset. Crying. He must be so scared, and that's what upsets me the most, I think even more than losing him--he's not prepared for this. I don't want him to be scared, don't want him to be living out the end of his life in fear.

After we spoke, I noticed Dad had called me while I was in class. I'm glad I wasn't able to pick up that call. I wouldn't have known what to say or do. I don't know what I can do to provide my dad with any sort of comfort or happiness. And I don't think that's just something in the wake of death, but instead it's been a long time since we've communicated in a way that has allowed us to really support one another, or to make each other happy. I want to do whatever is possible to make this better for him, but I have no idea how.

He called this morning. Still upset, but perhaps not as much as he was when speaking to C. He says he's not afraid to die, but I'm not sure I believe him. But he's worried about leaving us and H. Again, I think the worry only extends to H, and I don't say this to be insensitive or fault him in any way. I think he realizes that my brothers and I are going to be okay. We have support systems. H doesn't. As Dad said, she has no friends, and is estranged from her family. I am sure their decision all these years to keep to themselves/live for each other plays a huge role in that, but there could be other reasons too, of which I'm not aware. I told Dad that "we'll work something out." I feel bad for H and honor her dedication and care toward my dad throughout his illness, but I'm not sure what my brothers and I can really provide for her once he's gone. Sometimes I feel the dysfunction cannot be solved with a phone call to see how she's doing. Or maybe something so simple really is the solution?

I think we're flying to Miami tomorrow--C is figuring out flights today.

Fuck.

87. La Basilique du Sacre-Coeur de Montmartre

Date: June 24, 1990
Age: 14

Today we walked to just about every place on this card, from the bottom of the hill to the top of the steeple.
Love, Dad

After writing this entry, I noticed that I already posted this card in June 2008. Oops. That's what I get for being disorganized. I will aim to scan a different French postcard and replace this one by tomorrow. Follow this link to read about the trip, but follow below for what's running through my mind right now.

My father has used the same travel agent ever since he first moved to Miami, which was in the early-to-mid-Seventies. Considering how much he has traveled since then, she's very familiar with our family, and my brothers and I sometimes call her to book our trips, when we are trying to schedule something complicated and don't trust we won't muck it up through a travel website.

I called her last week to attempt some convoluted, yet cheap, trip to Ireland/Paris/Brussels. Well, no such cheap option exists, so in the end, I chose a roundtrip to Brussels (again?) and will take a train to Paris from there. (And here lies the reason behind blogging a Paris postcard).

During our first phone conversation about the trip, the travel agent asked me how my dad was doing. She's out of the loop, I guess, since he's too sick to travel. I told her what I thought I knew: that he was doing better, sounding stronger and more upbeat, has actually called my brothers and I for no real reason but to chat, and is supposed to start a clinical trial in Tampa.

A few days later when my trip was finalized, I spoke with the travel agent again, who said my father had called to book a flight to Baltimore--in order to explore a similar clinical trial like the one in Tampa. Interesting.

I emailed my dad and said, "I hear you're going to Baltimore?"

His response: "Yes, and D has a big mouth--It is just a 1-day trip for a medical exam."

Jesus, sorry I asked. I was ready and willing to chalk it up to my dad's insistence at keeping my brothers and I at arm's length, but he actually called me the next day to sort of apologize--not that the words "I'm sorry" ever materialized--but he said he wasn't trying to keep anything a secret, it just seems that D has always spoken openly about his travel plans to everyone--although doing so with family "would be okay." Alright, fair enough--he's right, it's not D's place to be sharing his business with everyone. But who else amongst my Dad's circle of human contact is D in touch with? Has he referred her to friends and colleagues? Because if not, my brothers and I are the only ones she would be--sporadically--talking to. My guess is that despite his disclaimer, sharing his travel plans with family is NOT okay with him. And that's fine. But don't jump down my throat over email--jump down hers, okay?

Also, this Sunday is Father's Day. Finding the right card is always a challenge, as I can't get behind the "world's best Dad" variety available. Others have pictures of golf clubs and barbecue grills--ya know, Dad stuff--and those don't really apply, either. I finally settled on a Chihuahua wearing a sombrero, saying "Muchas gracias," probably because it seemed as absurd as the state of our relationship sometimes is.

Before I had a chance to send it, Dad sent my brothers and aunt and me an email titled "Bad News." He wrote:

"Hello All,
Although I seemed to be in remission a month ago, the results of my biopsy found that the myeloma is back with a vengeance. Please don't call--I am not in the mood to talk right now. Tomorrow we are going to Tampa to see what they can do there. Will let you know when I know something."

I get he's discouraged and too upset to talk to anyone. Lord knows I've been there. But if my brothers and I understand correctly, the cancer was always going to return after that last round of chemo--around this time, too. Is it truly worse than before, like 'days are numbered' worse? Did he fill himself with false hope that it would miraculously not return?

In fact, beginning the clinical trial in Tampa was delayed because he was "not sick enough--not enough cancer cells in [his] urine." So theoretically, this now means he can begin the treatment in Tampa that has been showing promise right? Again, I yell, WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?

I have this picture of my father and me from when I was five years old, putting him at 42. He's holding me, and the photo was taken at chest-height. We're not smiling, but not frowning. We look calm, like we belong together, despite my (then) blond hair and light skin offset by his black hair and Mediterranean complexion.

I was going to include it with his Father's Day card, but after that email, I wondered if it would be too sentimental. We look serious, yet still. It's a great photo, something really timeless about it.

I sent the card yesterday, and the photo remains with me, for now.

86. New York

Date: November 18, 1988
Age: 11

I can't remember if you have cards in your collection from NYC. So here is one. Nice fireworks.
Love, Dad

NYC postcards are few and far between in my collection. That's probably because Dad rarely took business trips here, and we traveled to the city so often when I was a kid that a postcard didn't seem necessary. My entire family on my father's side grew up in Brooklyn, and his parents remained in his childhood home until they passed away--my grandmother in 1986, and my grandfather would go less than a year after this card was sent.

This is, unfortunately, the closest I have to a postcard representing Brooklyn. But not even--the caption on the back of the card reads "The Brooklyn Bridge in a dazzling fireworks display celebrating its Centennial Anniversary." But the bridge in the foreground is the Manhattan, and the Brooklyn is in the back, unlit and partially obscured by fireworks smoke. Misleading caption! The postcard company is based out of Long Island City. They're locals, for Christ's sake. They couldn't tell the difference? Really?

Anyhoo...all told, I've been living in NYC for eleven years, seven of them being in Brooklyn. I firmly believe it's the best borough in the greatest city on Earth, and so in some ways, it kills me to move to North Carolina in a few months. I am excited as all hell to join an excellent writing program, meet new people, live in a different part of the country, but I will miss it here. In 2003 I moved to Philly for two years; it was just a short drive away from NYC, and I always knew I'd move back eventually, but any sort of reference to the city--The Magnetic Field's The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side, or flipping past Sex and the City on TV--would get me all wistful. It'll probably happen again--after all, the city won't be as accessible, and I don't foresee myself moving back here once I finish my MFA. I can't afford it anymore. At this point I see myself in Philly again. I love that city as well, and I must admit, it's much prettier. I have friends there, it's more affordable, family nearby. It's a good fit.

But I think North Carolina will be, too. And I give my fellow writers full permission to smack me up the side of the head if I start waxing poetic about Brooklyn. (Especially because I'm no poet.)

I wish my grandfather had still been alive when I first moved to the city. I know he would have loved having me over for dinner so he could teach me Italian or dance with me. He was one of the most inquisitive people I knew, so he would have asked me so many questions about my new life in New York--classes at NYU, dorm living, etc. I could have learned who he really was as well. Although I know a lot about his life, I don't really know what he was like as a person--I think a grandparent is a persona most people wear, one that's shed once the visit with the kids is over. Grandchildren give you a second chance at being a better parent on a limited basis. My grandfather was caring, loving, funny, lively--but I think he was a strict father, not very nurturing. I'm not really sure. From what I've heard in passing after my they were gone, my dad couldn't stand his parents.

They're buried in the Ditmas Park/Flatbush area, and as far as I know, I've been the only family member to visit their grave since my grandfather's funeral nearly twenty years ago. But even I've only been twice.

This could lead into some introspective "who will remember me once I'm gone?" train of thought, but I'll put that aside for now. Instead, I'll say that visiting my grandparents is at the top of my "farewell NYC" list. Mixed in with final stops to cultural destinations and local watering holes, I will go to the cemetery and visit my grandparents. After all, they're the reason I found myself living in Brooklyn in the first place.

85. Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Maryland

Date: May 21, 1993
Age: 16

Hi! I just spoke to you on the phone. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Love,
Your Daddy

I received this postcard half a lifetime ago. The following month, my niece was born--the first grandchild to enter our family. After sixteen years, I was no longer the youngest one in our clan.

I remember holding my niece at the hospital, thinking to myself, "when she's my age, I'll be 32." Well, here we are, 32 years old. I'm not sure if I found that age to be frighteningly old or not. I was never one to create 5-year or 10-year plans, so therefore never considered my 30s, or even my 20s, and I could probably think of many reasons as to how that's helped my development as much as hindered it.

My brother was 27 when his daughter was born, which I thought was a perfectly appropriate age for being an adult and becoming a father. Now when I think of it, that age seems so young for having a child, even though it's not. I guess it's because I'm a part of Generation X, which has embraced delayed adolescence like no other.

My brothers' mom was at the hospital, and when my parents and I left, I told my mom how pretty I thought B and C's mom had looked. I didn't get to see her that often, but I had always thought she was a beautiful woman. My mother reacted badly to my observation--I can't remember exactly what happened, but she looked cross, or snapped at me...I don't know, but something happened. It took me by surprise--obviously their relationship throughout the years had probably been a tense one--how should the wives of one man relate to each other? Had nasty words ever been exchanged between them? Anyway, by this point, I had thought any bad blood had been part of the past, but my mother was still irritated.

I'm sure it was insensitive of me to say anything--though if I expressed my admiration for B and C's mom to her today, she'd probably agree and have no trouble with it. I guess when I made my opinion known, it was the calm before the storm in my parents' marriage, and my mother wasn't feeling too good about herself. I'm sure she'd feel foolish now if I told her how she'd reacted. (Or she'd tell me I had remembered it wrong.) Today, I'll bet she and B and C's mother have a certain camaraderie--they've both lived through this: a marriage to my dad gone sour, creating upheaval in their lives, forcing them to question so much of what had been important to them.

I believe now they are both very happy women, aging gracefully.

84. Tampa

Date: May 20, 1991
Age: 13

I have to give a speech here today but I'll be home for your birthday.
Have a good one.
Love you,
Dad

My dad was released from the hospital a couple of weeks ago, and has recently been accepted into a clinical trial at a cancer center in Tampa. He'll get infusions every Monday and Tuesday, blood tests Wednesday morning, then heads home--this is supposed to happen three weeks on, one week off, for a year (if it works).

It's good to hear that he, or more importantly, his doctors, are projecting treatment into the year to come. I've never had any real sense about his prognosis, and the frail health plus dramatics my brothers and I faced in Miami this spring made us think there wasn't a lot of time left for him.

The drug he's trying now is called Carfilzomib, which I guess is still so in the early stages that it doesn't pop up on Wikipedia or WebMD yet--meaning, it hasn't yet been written about in dumbed-down terms that I can understand. From what I can make of the info I have found, however, is that it's shown promise in fighting multiple myeloma even if the patient has already relapsed after therapies such as stem-cell transplants (like my dad).

The drive to Tampa is a trek-about 4 and a half hours. Yes, doable, but I'm sure will be exhausting for someone at his age in his condition to be doing every week.

83. Cairo--Giza

Date: May 18, 1997
Age: 19

Egypt is very interesting, but very hot--over 100 degrees yesterday. Rode around the pyramids on a camel, saw the sphinx and lots of graves. Got you some stuff.

When my brothers and I were in Miami in March, I noticed on H's desk a postcard leaning against a lamp. It was a shot of the Duomo in Florence. I picked it up and turned it over (yes, I was being nosy). It was sent from my dad to her, while they were on vacation together in Italy in 2007. It read very much like the postcards he has sent me over the years--in fact, he sent me postcards from the same trip, written on the same date. Although H's postcard was written to her, it was addressed to a hybrid of her and my father's names.

I showed it to my brothers, who said it was like a journal of their trip. Yes, but I reminded them that I've been getting these kinds of postcards for 30 years--something I thought was unique to my relationship with my father, since my brothers do not have such a collection of postcards. They've gotten a handful throughout the years, but nothing to the extent of what I have.

I was a little disappointed to find that he was sharing this postcard relationship with someone else--yes, the love of his life, I get that. I don't know how many others there are he's written to H. When did he start? When he first met her, before he left my mother for her? During those years when he was struggling to break away from the life he no longer wanted, was he reaching out to her through postcards as he continued to send them to me as well?

These postcards mean something entirely different to my dad than they do to me--but I don't know what that meaning is. And now I feel like my collection isn't as special, because it's not the only one. This sense of loss isn't enough to make me give up writing about them or enjoying them, but maybe it's time I just take them at face value--documentation of trips taken.