Tag Archives: father-daughter

Sacred Space

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coffee cup

Dad made coffee every day. He had a collection of coffee mugs—mostly Father’s day type mugs “Best Dad” “I Love My Grandpa”, but he had his favorite, the BIG Starbucks mug that seemed to hold half a pot of coffee. I remember I would find that half-full mug everywhere around the house. He always offered me a cup, and I usually turned it down as I rushed out of the house and made my way through the Starbucks drive-thru. On the occasions I did take him up on his offer, we would sit at the table and talk about life. I didn’t realize those would be the moments I would miss the most. It was the little moments that matter the most; that I miss the most and I wish I could have back again.
Now a days, I find myself standing in that same spot every morning and on most weekends making a second cup of coffee and then misplacing it somewhere around the house while I’m cleaning. I can’t help but smile and think of dad when I find my half-full mug in the most random places.
My morning coffee routine didn’t really start out as a coffee addiction, although I can’t seem to start a day without it, but after dad died I decided to keep his morning routine going.  I found that space to be calming it’s what I call dad’s sacred space, right there in my kitchen where he stood every morning. In that space he would inhale the hopes of the day and exhale away the mistakes and regrets of yesterday, it was a space where he prepared not just a cup of coffee, but where prepared himself for the day ahead and where he would invite me in. Dad’s routine was just a mundane routine when my life was so busy and fast and the little things were not important enough to notice or accept his invitation often enough.
What I have learned to embrace and cherish is that sweet spot of time and space when the house is quiet and the kids are asleep and all you can hear is the percolating sound of the coffee. I stand there in that sacred space, and I swear I feel daddy. I’ll close my eyes and I can feel his hand on my shoulder or just his presence in the room. I’ll inhale the hopes of the day and exhale the mistakes and regrets of yesterday and I’ll take a minute to be thankful for all the little things, the little moments I was too busy to notice before, right there in our sacred space.

sacred-space

Dad’s Coffee Pot

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Dad’s coffee counter

 

Dad loved his coffee pot. It had some fancy filter, but for one reason or another, the spring would pop off the filter and he would take out his tools, jiggle stuff around and fix it. I didn’t really pay too much attention, but I would offer to buy him another pot, which of course, he would refuse and would say something like ‘Aye mijita, it’s still good, you just need to fix it every now and then’.

When dad was in the hospital, he drank his coffee, but would quietly say he couldn’t wait to get back to his coffee at home, probably because he could put as much cream and sugar as he wanted without the watchful eyes of the nurses. When we finally made it home, he went straight to the kitchen and made his coffee. I remember thinking, I should have paid more attention to how he made his coffee, but he made it clear he didn’t need any help and would be making his own coffee. At that point, he was still strong and walking around and could do things for himself. It was hard for us to reconcile the fact that he was dying, but as he would say “I’m not dead yet.” He tried to cut the tension with some humor, so as hard as it was for me to swallow that humor, I laughed out loud, but cried inside.

A few days later, we were in the kitchen together. He was making us coffee and I was sitting at the kitchen table. I was home on leave supposedly taking care of dad, but there he was in the kitchen, taking care of me. That fancy coffee pot filter popped off again. I fully expected him to just take out his tools and fix it, but he just stood there looking at the broken coffee pot. He finally picked it up and brought it to the table. It was like watching a movie in slow motion. I felt my face getting red and as he started to talk to me, I could tell he was trying to show me how to fix it, but I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t want to hear him. I told him I didn’t want to know and he looked at me said, “Mijita, I need you to learn how to fix the coffee pot now.” So, we sat there at the table and he showed me how to fix that damn spring. He made me do it twice before he gave the thumbs up. He walked me through how to make his coffee to his exact taste. We both held back tears. We didn’t acknowledge anything verbally in that moment, we just did what we had to do, he taught me, I learned and we had our coffee and talked about life. That was our father daughter dance, don’t ask me, don’t tell me, just show me. There were many things that we didn’t acknowledge verbally, but our actions of love, acceptance, and forgiveness spoke louder than words.

I remember the first time that dang coffee pot broke after he died. I stood there, in that same spot where dad stood every day and where I stood every day after that and I found the strength to fix that spring through tears and sobs. I was so proud of myself for fixing that coffee pot. I knew he was proud of me and I could feel his presence there with me.

 

Su Voto es su Voz, Your Vote is your Voice

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Voting with one of Dad’s favorite hats

‘Vote mijita, no matter what, vote! Su Voto es su Voz, always remember that, your vote is your voice.’ I remember my dad first introducing this message to me when I was in elementary school. He tried to instill in me at an early age the importance of voting. I remember listening to his stories of struggle and injustice, but they were just that, stories. I couldn’t connect to the meaning just yet, but like a good daughter, I listened and promised him when it was my turn to vote, I would vote.

Over the years I watched my dad cast his vote for every election he was eligible to vote in, from School Board, to County Commissioner, to City Council and Presidential elections. As my dad got older his health made it difficult for him to get to the polls, but he always managed to “find a ride.” My dad set an expectation and modeled being a responsible, educated, and active participant in the democratic process. He would tell me things like, ‘If you didn’t vote, don’t complain about the fools in office, Su Voto es su Voz, always remember Your vote is your Voice.’

I would encounter these words again and again throughout my high school and college career. The National Hispanic Institute, a high school leadership program, helped me put these words into action through debates, youth government programs and teaching us to be educated about our political system, the history of Latino politics and the responsibility of voting. I began to feel these words come to life.
Throughout college, I not only studied social work, but I also studied Chicano politics and immersed myself in political activism. I remember learning about Willie Velasquez and the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project’s moto- Su Voto es su Voz,Your Vote is your Voice. I embraced Willie’s and my dad’s words with a new passion. I could hear these words in my head each time I picked up a sign to protest or march in the streets of Austin, Chicago and Washington D.C. After every event I’d call my dad and he would say something like ‘Great you did all that, but did you vote?’ He and I didn’t always agree on the role of political activism, but I respected point of view and admired his commitment to voting.

He would encourage anyone about to reach voting age to register to vote. He never told anyone who to support or not support, he just told them to vote. I remember showing him my first voter registration card and how happy it made him. His face, at that moment is etched in my memory. Even now, each time I cast my vote, I think of my dad and all the people before me who fought and died for the right to vote, those who endured poll tests and poll taxes, threats and intimidation, suppression and oppression just so I could have the right to vote.

I don’t write this to tell you who to support or not support, but I write this to encourage you to participate in the democratic process, just like my dad encouraged me, Su Voto es su Voz,Your Vote is your Voice!

My Last Birthday with Dad

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The anniversary of Dad’s death is approaching. My grief  is never really that far away, but the week leading up to October 24th seems to give my grief permission to invade my life and grow stronger the closer it gets to the anniversary date. Over the last few years it has been a struggle to “celebrate” my birthday when the memories of my last birthday with Dad still seem so fresh. October 18, 2011, was the last time I celebrated with dad. How could I know a week later, he would be gone.

We gathered at the table like we did every year for by birthday, candles and cake, flowers and balloons, cards and gifts. Except this time, dad was bald from the radiation treatment. His full head of curly hair was the only thing missing that day.  The memory of  his laughter and singing “Happy Birthday” will be with me always and even though I sob each time I watch these video clips, I feel dad’s love and spirit here with me.

Sharing these bitter sweet treasures of October 18, 2011 my last birthday with dad…

 

My Dad, My Daddy

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me and dad

It’s that time of year again and I’m still trying to figure out how to “celebrate” Father’s Day without my dad but the days leading up to Father’s Day are emotional and I write as a way to cope and deal with another Father’s Day without my dad and my daddy.

I used to carefully select my Father’s Day cards for dad. Always choosing one cheesy sentimental dad card and choosing one cute daddy/daughter card. I saw him as both, a dad and a daddy. A dad, who gave me advice and guidance, a dad who was strong and firm but he was also a daddy. A daddy who knew when I was hurting, a daddy who knew when to give me space or to just pull me in for a hug and say things like “Ay mijita, it will be ok. What do you need?” That was daddy, always ready to make things better, whatever the problem. If he could do something about it, he would, or he would find somebody to help. If none of that worked, he would just try to feed you, bacon mostly.

As Father’s Day approaches, I move from sadness to guilt to gratitude and back to sadness again. I have learned not to fight the sadness, but to embrace it. I linger in that sad space and let the hot tear drops fall on my cheeks. I close my eyes, put some Freddy Fender classics on and just sit with my memories for a little while.

One Freddy Fender song that is especially meaningful to me is “Before the Next Teardrop Falls” When I hear this song, it makes me think of my daddy consoling me over a heartbreak or a loss. I knew he would always be there for me in life and now I know his love will always be with me, even in death. I miss you daddy!

“Before The Next Teardrop Falls”
FREDDY FENDER
If he brings you happiness
Then i wish you all the best
It’s your happiness that matters most of all
But if he ever breaks your heart
If the teardrops ever start
I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls
Si te quire de verdad
Y te da felicidad
Te deseo lo mas bueno pa’los dos
Pero si te hace llorar
A mime puedes hablar
Y estare contigo cuando treste estas
I’ll be there anytime
You need me by your side
To drive away every teardrop that you cried
And if he ever leaves you blue
Just remember, I love you
And I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls
And I’ll be there before the next teardrop falls

Witnessing the Beauty and Grace of Humanity

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I started going with dad to his doctor appointments after his cancer diagnosis. He couldn’t drive anymore and his hearing was terrible. I did my daughterly duty with honor, guilt, sadness, pain, love and sacrifice. Every day was harder than the next, but I showed up, notebook in hand and ready to roll. Just like my dad taught me.

From diagnosis to treatment the words flew so fast that I don’t think he really comprehended what was going on, but I clung to every word. As the doctor gave him the news that his cancer was at stage 4, he looked un-phased. Time stopped. It was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, he broke the silence and asked a question. “Ok doc, 4 out of what? 10?” My heart sank. I heard the words “stage 4” and I had to hold back tears. I had experienced the ravages of cancer with my in-laws and read everything I could read on staging and prognosis and I knew what “stage 4” meant. I was holding on to faith and on to reality at the same time. I fought back my tears and tried to do my daughterly duty, be present and take notes. Just like my dad taught me.

When the doctor’s started explaining the side effects of chemotherapy, I watched as the words passed by him. He focused on one statement “and you will lose your hair” WAIT!!! What?? He got that “what are you talking about” look on his face. Dad’s closest touch to cancer or chemotherapy was what he saw on TV. He couldn’t lose his hair. He was famous for his billowing salt and pepper curls. I would tease him about his weekly trips to his hair lady. Either he was lying about his weekly haircuts and just hanging out in the neighborhood or he had a crush on his hair lady. He would just laugh and say “Ay Mijita! I am really getting my haircut.”

The effects of chemo and radiation started showing, but dad was not having it. He told me in one of our quiet moments in the morning, that his beloved hair had actually started falling out. He said he wanted to get his hair cut to avoid the slow fall out and patches of hair hanging on for dear life.

Ok, I thought to myself. I can do this. I can “do” something. I offered to take dad to my hair lady. I just knew she would be gentle with him. Of course, dad declined my offer. He said he wanted to go to his lady.

Days passed by and he kept delaying getting his hair cut. I could see his hair thinning. Again I offered my hair lady, but he was adamant that he wanted his hair lady. I thought his decision to cut his hair was an act of defiance against chemotherapy, but after I witnessed the grace and beauty of his hair lady, I knew I was wrong. I think his decision to get haircut, in his time, on his terms and with his hair lady was an act of acceptance. He accepted the fact that he did indeed have cancer, that he was going to experience the side effects and that he had to begin to say good bye, in his time, and on his terms.

We finally made our way to dad’s hair lady. I was curious to see what was so special about this hair lady. I was taken aback from their first interaction to the last. I was especially touched by her gentleness with dad that I decided to take a picture of them to help me remember the moment. It’s a moment I’ve kept close to me, that only now, can I put in words what I was trying to capture with this picture.

dad hair cut

The hair lady didn’t notice we walked in. I took a seat and dad patiently waited for her to turn around from cleaning her chair area. She smiled from ear to ear like she had just seen an old friend. With my limited comprehension of Spanish and what I could gather from their body language this is what happened next.

The hair lady seemed to ask daddy where he had been. He quietly leaned over and told her about his cancer and being in the hospital. Her beaming smile was erased in an instant. As always, dad tried to cheer her up as soon as he noticed her concerned look. I’m not sure what he told her. If I had to guess, he probably made a pass at her because she seemed to turn red. He must have told her about his chemo and his hair falling out because she reached up on her tiptoes and ran her fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair. It looked like she was trying to reassure him. She seemed to take a deep breathe to compose herself and invited him to take a seat in her chair.

Dad sat in the chair and stared in the mirror like he was trying to memorize what he looked like with hair. She stood behind him staring at the man in the mirror. It was one of the most intimate moments I had witnessed. She put both hands on his head and leaned over and kissed his head full of hair and then she got to work. For every curl that fell, I found my tears falling, but she cleaned him up good. He asked her the full treatment. She cut and trimmed with such gentleness and he was as relaxed as I had seen him in months.

When she was done, she spun him around in his chair so he could see his new self in the mirror. He seemed to stare a little longer trying to adjust his eyes to his new bald head. Again, she cradled his newly bald head in her hands and gently kissed the top of his head. They embraced and whispered to each other. She told him not to wait so long next time and he just gave her a lingering look. He pulled out a wad full of money and thanked her for taking care of him and his hair. She tried to give him the wad of money back like that would reverse the inevitable words that would come out of his mouth. He started to say something but she stopped him by hugging him again. She didn’t want to say good bye and yet every one of her actions made his good bye, a good bye that didn’t require words. She eased his worry. In that moment, I knew I had witnessed the grace and beauty of humanity. Dad reminded me that you should be loyal to the people who treat you well, you should always leave a big tip, and in turn, you will be treated with dignity and respect. So, I’ll take this lesson with me too, just like my dad taught me.
Missing you much old man!

Vaya con Dios

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*click play and listen to the words of the song before you read the post…

Vaya con Dios

I’ve become somewhat obsessed with Freddy Fender since dad died. I stumbled across his music when I was trying to find songs for the memorial slide show. I had known for a while that dad liked Freddy Fender. I heard a couple of his songs over the years, but had not really ever listened to the lyrics.
At the time, one song seemed to just jump out at me, Vaya con Dios. The title, Go With God, seemed fitting for a memorial slide show. The more I listened to the lyrics, the more I felt like it was dad singing to us all there, gathered at his funeral:
“Now the hacienda’s dark, the town is sleeping;
Now the time has come to part, the time for weeping.
Vaya Con Dios my darling, Vaya Con Dios my love”
I’d close my eyes and imagine it was dad singing the words of the song to us. The more I read up about Freddy Fender, the more he reminded me of dad. Their thick curly hair and their well-groomed mustache were so similar. If you pictured them side by side, they could have been twins.
At the funeral, I sat there in the pew, soaked in grief and watching dad’s life in pictures slowly cross the screen. I wondered how I was going to get through life without him. I imagined him singing the next verse to try to comfort us..
“Whever you may be, I’ll be beside you,
Although you’re many million dreams away.
Each night I’ll say a pray’r, a pray’r to guide you
To hasten every lonely hour of ev’ry lonely day.”
These particular lyrics have helped comfort me in the lonely days that have followed. And as I’ve clung to my grief as if I were clinging to dad himself, I again, imagine dad singing to us softly
“Now the dawn is breaking through a gray tomorrow,
But the memories we share are there to borrow.
Vaya con Dios my darling, Vaya con Dios my love.”
I can almost hear him saying “ay…mijitas! I’m ok…” as he sings his final verse to us…
“Now the village mission bells are softly ringing,
If you listen with your hear you’ll hear them singing,
Vaya con Dios my darling, Vaya con Dios my love.”
Today, when I hear this song, I can envision him, not walking away from us, but walking toward the sun, to GOD. And when I’m listening to this song, blaring out of the speakers and tears are streaming down my face as I am loudly singing to my dad, I know it’s time to stop clinging to my grief and let it go.
So I sing to him….
“Vaya con Dios my darling, Vaya con Dios my love…….”

freddy fenderdad.mom.angel

Right!?!

If we could all be so lucky

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As my first official post, I wanted to start off with the words that I used to sum up my dad’s life. I’m sharing the eulogy I wrote for his funeral service on October 31, 2011. This was the first time I started to write about this journey.

“I heard my dad retell the story to people about when he got the call from the doctor about his diagnosis. He was driving, smoking a cigarette and had a beer in one hand and the phone in the other. He would say, at the end of the phone call, he threw his cigarette and beer out the window and kicked the devil out the truck. Since that day, only the Good Lord was riding with him. It was so true. I witnessed his daily transformation. He made peace with the past that haunted him.
In the final month of my dad’s life, he had come to terms with God’s plan for him. He knew his time was limited, but you would never have known it from talking to him. He always seemed to make US feel better at the end of every conversation.
Dad started to take notice of the little things. He would tell me about watching the sunrise every morning when he was in the hospital and how he couldn’t wait to feel the sun again. When he came home, he’d sit outside and feel, really feel the sun. I would watch him some times, closing his eyes, soaking in the sun. He would sit on the back porch and feel the wind blowing on his newly bald head. He’d smell the moon flowers and admire the beautiful Angel trumpets. He was truly thankful for every day.
He savored every cup of his morning coffee and every bite of food friends and family brought over. He read every word in the newspaper and attempted every crossword puzzle. He wasn’t going to waste any time.
He became more intentional about his life lessons. He would sit at the kitchen table with my kids and tell them about why it’s important to listen to their parents, to help out around the house, to be respectful and of course, to do their homework. He never let an opportunity pass that he could talk about staying in school or going back to school to anyone who would listen.
My dad valued education. It was education that gave him opportunities in his life. He also valued family and friendship and in the end, he valued his faith.
My dad left this world the way he wanted to, at peace with himself, with faith in God and surrounded by his girls. If we could all be so lucky…..”

This was my first experience being so intimately involved with planning a funeral. Dad planned as much as he could. I used to think it was so morbid to plan your own funeral. In the end, it was comforting to know that I was honoring his wishes and not guessing what I thought he would want. But then there were other things that I had to make decisions about. All the details and decisions blew my mind and made me really think about what I want for myself. For example, I had never seriously considered cremation, but dealing with the details of burial, I am seriously considering it. Then, I think about the question of, do I pick my own urn? I’m not sure I am ready to do that just yet. I have trouble deciding which pairs of shoes to get. I think about decisions my kids would have to make. Would they scatter me somewhere special? Would they fight over who gets to keep the urn? Would they divide me up in 4 urns? They are still young and I guess my block here is watching them fight over who gets the remote. With that as my frame of reference, you can see why I would be worried. There are so many questions and although I haven’t made any real decisions about my own burial plans, I’m good with just thinking about them and talking through them with my husband. I am learning it is not morbid or creepy to plan or prepare, it is actually a loving and courageous act. If we could all be so lucky…