5,111 days and counting

The day he died he was recuperating from our birthday party the day before. I say "our" because I was born on his birthday, April 25, and everyone in the clan was so sure I was going to be their longed-for boy. This explains the abundance of pictures of me as a toddler wearing pantsuits with matching caps. (My sister, one year older, was always decked out in frilly little bouffant concoctions.) For the first several years of my life, I even answered to the name "Junior."

            On his last birthday, I gave him a Tony Bennett DVD which he asked me to put on. He didn't get to watch it though, because a steady stream of guests kept interrupting. Then I had to leave because Hubby, still a boyfriend back then, had planned a surprise dinner party with our friends.

            At the end of the next day, just as the sun was setting, Mom greeted me at the door with the words, "Go to Arcadia Methodist. Your dad passed away." She didn't even let me in the house.

            All along the drive down Huntington Drive , I kept telling myself someone made a mistake, someone had gotten things wrong. But one look at the ER nurse's face, pulled down with pity, told me my father, the one whom everyone called "Doc," the man who refused me nothing, who gave me a subscription to Time when I was 12, who somehow knew what I wanted most in the world was a Hello Kitty doll for my 10^th birthday, was gone.

            When you lose someone, the first few days are an exhausting blur of pain, and tears and greeting people, chanting prayers. You're laid bare and feeling raw. I remember crying in the arms of family and friends, and staying up late to make a collage of pictures about Dad. I remember wondering why other people still drove around singing along to their radios, of eating at restaurants, or going to the mall. My world just stood still, why not everyone else's?

            At his funeral, frought with potential drama because Mom and Dad had divorced and he had remarried and had a 3-year-old daughter, my five sisters and I lined up beside his coffin and hung our heads in prayer. A priest said we made a beautiful sight. Later, I buried a Hello Kitty doll with him.

              I remember the first time I smiled again, the first time I enjoyed a meal, and the day, many months later, that I could drive by Rose Hills on the 605 and not cry. Neil Diamond songs brought a fresh rush of tears. Frank Sinatra had Dad's voice too.

            These days, I see Dad's uneven eyes when Firstborn Son smiles, and his charm flows easily through Wonder Boy, who gets as many compliments about his looks as Dad, the Steve McQueen look-a-like. I see Dad's nose and mouth in the mirror everyday.

            He was a great doctor and a very human dad who showed us his love by providing us with what he thought we needed, mostly things. It was only later that he learned to lean over for hugs and to sign off his letters with "I love you."

I still feel connected to him after all this time. 

His name was Aniano Vicente and 62 years. He's been gone 14 years and a day today and I miss him.