Born January 25, 1947, my father would have been 68 today. Time is definitely relative, as it seems entirely young to die in your early 70s at this point, when growing up, dying in your 70s seemed perfectly right and normal.
A lot of that has to do with advancements in modern medicine and technology and weird movements toward shit that actually scares me, like the singularity and stuff. And truth be told, I know when people who know even a little bit about my dad's life really do the math, they probably think he beat the Vegas odds.
And they're probably right. But just like Flan had an incredibly amazing and wonderful life to have lived so healthy and awesome for 20 years, it does not take away one moment of wishing she were still here with me, being the awesome perfect cat that she was. And knowing that my dad got 30 years of time on a borrowed kidney and three different hip transplants and cataract surgery and a retina surgery and diabetes and skin cancer and so, so, so, so much fucking pain plus a good go around with Acute Myeloid Leukemia?
Well, it doesn't change the fact that I feel robbed. That I sometimes think about friends who are older than I am and how much older their parents are -- how much healthier those older parents are -- and I wonder why that couldn't have been my fate. I don't wonder long, of course. I'm a recovering alcoholic who has manic-depression in remission. So, if I'm going to go around wondering "Why them? Why me?" I'm going to be really fucked really fast.
But this grief thing is really new. It's been just over three months, and it's my dad and all. So, sometimes, the thought does cross my mind. I wish it had been someone older, someone who had made more sense.
But we're here. It's his birthday. I miss him. So, here are some pictures of my dad. I don't know what good it does, but I don't want to forget him and I don't want you to, either.