Date: August 19, 1998
Age: 21
This summer went so fast. I didn't get done half the things I wanted to, but at least I did some diving. That was good. Talk to you when I get back.
Love, Dad
Not surprisingly, my dad doesn't go diving anymore. He once told me he wanted to still be diving at eighty years old. He'll be seventy this fall, and it will be two years ago next week that he was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, and so he hasn't been diving for a few years now. I doubt he'll even get to do any serious traveling ever again--since his immune system is so weak, his doctors warn him against flying, against breathing that recirculated air.
My dad has always loved the ocean, and I thank him for making it a part of my life for so long. I miss going out on his boat--he was a certified captain. If you asked him to drive fast, he'd drive fast. Slow, he'd go slow. He'd be mindful of people on the boat who had never been on one before, cruising out into the ocean, and made sure it was calming and enjoyable.
I never learned how to dive, unfortunately, but we often went snorkeling around coral reefs, and he'd point out eels and other underwater creatures. The fish didn't care you were there. Sometimes they'd dart away if you tried to touch them, but I'm sure they weren't scared, just annoyed. (Can fish become annoyed?)
Of course, all of this changed when our family fell apart, and when it came back together again, the experiences were different. A few years ago, my brothers and I received gift subscriptions to Islands magazine. My dad and H had taken their diving trips beyond the Florida Keys by then--that's why I have postcards from South Africa, Fiji, and other places that I couldn't tell you if they are their own countries or territories of another. Places my brothers and I may never have the good fortune to go, so it seemed strange that we were receiving a magazine about destinations such as these--and others far more remote.
I have never once read the magazine.
A few days ago I opened up my mailbox at my new apartment in Greensboro, and there it was. Sure, my mail has come forwarded from my Brooklyn address, but Islands seems to follow me, as if it's not going to let up until I read one cover to cover. My dad must have our subscriptions on an automatic renewal. I wonder if he even realizes we still receive it.
Two years ago next week was one of the worst times of my life--my father was diagnosed with cancer, my long-term relationship ended acrimoniously, and I was in between abdominal surgeries: no longer sick, but not yet healthy, and between my body recovering and the emotional turmoil I was going through, I looked more sick than anything else.
To look at me today, you'd never know I was sick, and having gone through such a terrible illness is something I'm not quite over emotionally, but I'm getting there. I'm sorry that my dad is never going to get there. No matter how well his disease is managed (and here he's made us think, twice, that the end was nigh), he's never going to get a break from it, never not look ill. When my brothers and I pushed him around in a wheelchair at the Metro Zoo back in June--and that alone was surreal for us--H called and told us to return right away, the doctors phoned, our dad needed more blood, or new blood, or platelets, or something. This is it for him, this is how is life will be, no matter how long, or little, it lasts. I don't mean to imply that my father's life now is pitiful, because he can still have good days and enjoy life, and I think he does--but he's got to miss the traveling, the diving. At least he still lives near the ocean.
Someone I once knew, who is no longer with us, wrote during his own illness:
"I'm mentally and physically blasted. But I am thankful for life, thankful for love, thankful for existence, and thankful for everything, in ways that never, ever happened until I made it out of the house today. Yesterday I was so depressed I couldn't think of anything but death. Today I am so glad to be alive I'm just amazed...I'm writing about it today party to have notes I can read when I'm back to feeling hideously trapped in this house...But I am just going to let if fly today, let it fly."
Let it fly, Dad. Let it fly.
My dad has always loved the ocean, and I thank him for making it a part of my life for so long. I miss going out on his boat--he was a certified captain. If you asked him to drive fast, he'd drive fast. Slow, he'd go slow. He'd be mindful of people on the boat who had never been on one before, cruising out into the ocean, and made sure it was calming and enjoyable.
I never learned how to dive, unfortunately, but we often went snorkeling around coral reefs, and he'd point out eels and other underwater creatures. The fish didn't care you were there. Sometimes they'd dart away if you tried to touch them, but I'm sure they weren't scared, just annoyed. (Can fish become annoyed?)
Of course, all of this changed when our family fell apart, and when it came back together again, the experiences were different. A few years ago, my brothers and I received gift subscriptions to Islands magazine. My dad and H had taken their diving trips beyond the Florida Keys by then--that's why I have postcards from South Africa, Fiji, and other places that I couldn't tell you if they are their own countries or territories of another. Places my brothers and I may never have the good fortune to go, so it seemed strange that we were receiving a magazine about destinations such as these--and others far more remote.
I have never once read the magazine.
A few days ago I opened up my mailbox at my new apartment in Greensboro, and there it was. Sure, my mail has come forwarded from my Brooklyn address, but Islands seems to follow me, as if it's not going to let up until I read one cover to cover. My dad must have our subscriptions on an automatic renewal. I wonder if he even realizes we still receive it.
Two years ago next week was one of the worst times of my life--my father was diagnosed with cancer, my long-term relationship ended acrimoniously, and I was in between abdominal surgeries: no longer sick, but not yet healthy, and between my body recovering and the emotional turmoil I was going through, I looked more sick than anything else.
To look at me today, you'd never know I was sick, and having gone through such a terrible illness is something I'm not quite over emotionally, but I'm getting there. I'm sorry that my dad is never going to get there. No matter how well his disease is managed (and here he's made us think, twice, that the end was nigh), he's never going to get a break from it, never not look ill. When my brothers and I pushed him around in a wheelchair at the Metro Zoo back in June--and that alone was surreal for us--H called and told us to return right away, the doctors phoned, our dad needed more blood, or new blood, or platelets, or something. This is it for him, this is how is life will be, no matter how long, or little, it lasts. I don't mean to imply that my father's life now is pitiful, because he can still have good days and enjoy life, and I think he does--but he's got to miss the traveling, the diving. At least he still lives near the ocean.
Someone I once knew, who is no longer with us, wrote during his own illness:
"I'm mentally and physically blasted. But I am thankful for life, thankful for love, thankful for existence, and thankful for everything, in ways that never, ever happened until I made it out of the house today. Yesterday I was so depressed I couldn't think of anything but death. Today I am so glad to be alive I'm just amazed...I'm writing about it today party to have notes I can read when I'm back to feeling hideously trapped in this house...But I am just going to let if fly today, let it fly."
Let it fly, Dad. Let it fly.
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