Tag Archives: life-lessons

Box of Cards

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I’ve been thinking about a dad a lot these last few days. His birthday is tomorrow, September 16th and I find myself getting emotional during this time since he’s been gone. I started to think about all the celebrations we had for Father’s Day and birthdays. Those were not celebrations to be missed. No matter what was going on or where we all were in life, we all seemed to find the time to show up.

It didn’t matter if we were at a restaurant, in the backyard of someone’s house, or just sitting at his kitchen table in his apartment. He didn’t want anything fancy, just us coming together. Gatherings for dad were about celebrating him being the dad and grandpa we needed him to be, not about decorations or presents. Don’t get me wrong, there were presents of all kinds, “best dad” t-shirts, #1 Grandpa hats, coffee mugs, shoes, nice dress shirts and the occasional 6 pack of beer. He would sit back and unwrap his gifts and read every card. I do miss card shopping for Dad. I would take my time to find the right cards from me and the kids. I knew he read them all. He treasured each one, maybe more than his gifts.

A couple of years ago, I was going through some of dads things and came across a shoe box full of cards. As soon as I finished reading one card, I couldn’t stop crying.  I closed the box up and put it away for another day. I wasn’t ready.

Today, I decided to try looking through the box of cards again. I figured since I wasn’t going to be card shopping for dad, maybe I could read the carefully chosen cards for dad.

I emptied the box out and spread the cards out on the floor of his old room. I cried like a baby, then of course I sorted and organized  and then I read every card and every hand written note he saved. They were well taken care of, all looked brand-new. It was not a surprise, but I found several of his voter registration cards mixed in the box. There were also graduation invitations that he cherished and did his best to attend, even when it was hard to get around. Education came first to dad, always and he would be there to celebrate if he could.


Dad also had several “Thank You” cards for his generosity and friendship. Our former neighbors Sandy and John became friends with my dad and were always finding ways to thank him for being a good neighbor. That was dad. He would find a way to be helpful and kind to anyone. He started a neighborly tradition that whoever woke up first and picked up their newspaper from the driveway, they would take pick up their neighbors paper from their driveway and put it on their doorstep to save them steps. The funny thing was that dad was an early riser and Ms. Sandy and Mr. John were late sleepers so it was always my dad delivering their paper just like the mailman he used to be.
But the card I came across that really just epitomized dad’s pampering of people in his life was from a long-time family friend and his banker, Renee. He knew how to take care of the people who provided good service to him.


There were also cards wishing him a speedy recovery, thinking of you and welcome home that just kept the tears coming.

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How cute were the “Grandpa” cards and poster?! The kids really enjoyed picking out cards for him because they knew he enjoyed getting them.

There were so many Father’s Day and Birthday cards that were chosen just for him. It was overwhelming and beautiful all at the same time. Dad made us all feel special. He was the dad we each needed him to be, even if it wasn’t exactly at the time we needed him, he showed up anyway and then he stayed put. Dad became my anchor when I felt like I was floating away, my confidant when I felt alone in the world, my cheerleader when I doubted myself, my shoulder to cry on when my heart hurt and my example to parent with unconditional love.

I could feel all the love, admiration and appreciation jump right off of those cards and into my heart.  I wondered if that’s what dad felt and if that’s why he kept all these cards

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.

 

#CollegePrepPapa

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Graduation and Father’s day collided for me this year. As much as I was happy and proud of Julia on graduation day, it felt so incomplete without dad, her Papa, sitting there with us to witness and celebrate our baby girl. I know he is with us in spirit and in our hearts, and yet it still doesn’t stop me wishing he were here with us to take that proud graduation picture. You know the one, with the him all dressed up and nicely trimmed beard and hair. I envisioned that picture of him and Julia since the day she was born.  If you follow me on Facebook, you know I post about being a mom ALL the time and especially my adventures being #CollegePrepMom. Here’s the thing, my dad taught me how to be a mom. My dad taught me how to be a wife and a sister and a friend. He was #CollegePrepDad and became #CollegePrepPapa before I knew how to be #CollegePrepMom.
I can imagine him trying to figure out what #CollegePrepDad and #CollegePrepPapa means. I imagine his saying ‘Ay mijita, what is all that # stuff??’
So here I am, an emotional mess trying to deal with all these changes and wishing I had my dad with me to help me know what to do next. Dad had been with me every step of the way with Julia. He was there when she was born and then moved in when she was a baby. He used to come in our room at night and roll her bassinet out of the room and put it next to his so he could take care of both of his babies. He fed her and dressed her and took for a walks and rides in that old red wagon. Everyone in our neighborhood knew the old man and the baby girl in red wagon. He was there to meet her at the bus stop after school and take her to swim and gymnastics classes when we couldn’t. He was there at her plays and choir programs. He was there for open houses and grandparents luncheons. He was her biggest customer for all her school fundraisers and Girl Scout cookie sales. He was there when the dreaded “tweens” hit and was the only one she would talk to or let hug her. He was there when she would run to her room and slam the door and he was the only one she allowed in to comfort her. As much as I tried, she wouldn’t let me in. In the days leading up to his death he told me, “don’t give up mijita, you gotta keep going back to her room and finding a way.” He would tell me I was too hard on her and to give her time to grow out of this phase, to be patient and forgiving and to always let her know she will be loved. The tweens years passed and so did dad when Julia turned 13. I was lost without him, but I kept going back until she let me in to her room and to her life. As always, dad had the best advice and I know things will be fine and if not, well I have three more kids to practice on and hopefully I’ll get it right with one of them. I’ve had a great role model with my very own #CollegePrepDad and #CollegePrepPapa.

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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…

 

Vietnamese for Beginners

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Olivia came across a Vietnamese for Beginners book/cd set in her room the other day. She brought it to me assuming it belonged to Papa. She moved into his room after he died and she comes across some of his things here and there. She didn’t remember he bought the book/cd for her. My heart fluttered for a minute and then I reminded her about the day she told Papa she had a classmate who didn’t speak English and she wanted to learn some Vietnamese so he wouldn’t feel alone. A few weeks later, Papa gave her the book/cd to learn Vietnamese. She was so excited and grateful, but she was only in 1st grade and could barely read English. It was such a sweet gesture. I remember asking dad where and how he got the books. This was before you could click a button on your virtual shopping cart and boxes magically appeared at your door. He just smiled and said something like “I know people too..”

vietnamese
We put the book/cd away and just forgot about them. Finding those books made me think about dad speaking Vietnamese. Every now and then he would share tid-bits of stories about his time in Vietnam, but what I remember him sharing was him having to learn a little bit of Vietnamese to survive. He taught me how to count to 10 in Vietnamese, and would sometimes quiz me. I could rattle those ten words off without a problem when I was a kid. Today, I can only count to three, Một Hai Ba, and I cling to those three words like a family heirloom.

Dad had this embarrassing habit of trying to start a conversation with every Vietnamese person he saw. I remember walking in with him into convenience stores or grocery stores in Fifth Ward where he lived and delivered mail for 20 years and I would stand there embarrassed as he would try to engage the cashiers in Vietnamese. Those that knew him as “Checko-The Mailman” laughed and spoke back to him, those that didn’t know him, would soon learn to know and love him. I don’t know what they talked about, it was never a very long conversation, just pleasantries I assumed.
Years later, when dad moved away from his neighborhood and moved into mine, he looked for those opportunities to engage with cashier, Vietnamese or not. He was just a talker and sometimes he got a response, and sometimes, he didn’t. He was no longer “Checko-The Mailman” and I could tell he missed the small talk.

In my neighborhood, on the other side of Houston, he would sit out on my front porch and waive to people as they walked their dogs or took powerwalks at 6am. Again, some people waived back, and some people didn’t, but he kept waiving each time they passed in front of our house.
On the day our new neighbors moved in down the street, I remember my dad saying “I think I know them.” I remember feeling like that embarrassed kid standing next to him as he spoke to the cashier in Vietnamese. I told him, “Dad, are you saying that because they are Vietnamese?” He knew I didn’t believe him.

A few days later, he told me about his encounter with our new neighbors. He said there was a lady who would go walking in the morning and he recognized her as a cashier from his old neighborhood. So, of course, my dad tried calling to her as she walked by the house. She didn’t look or respond. The next morning, he tried calling to her and again she didn’t look or respond, but this time she had a large stick with her. The following day, he was there at 6am in the morning sitting on the porch waiting for her to walk by the house. He just knew if she looked at him, she would recognize him.On this day, the neighbor had her large stick AND her husband with her and when my dad called out, the husband recognized “Checko-The Mailman!” They had a good laugh and talked about how funny it was they ended up from in the same neighborhood all these years later.

Dad continued to call out and waive to them in the mornings, this time, embarrassing Julia as he walked her to the bus stop and he would do it again as he waited with Olivia at her bus stop and called out and waived her to friends parents. One day I hope they will look back and remember those embarrassing moments and cherish them like family heirlooms. Olivia was so touched by the stories I told her about Papa and the books, she has decided to try to teacher herself Vietnamese. I told her I could help her get started…Một Hai Ba.

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

Why We Celebrate Dia de los Muertos

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Manuel Pacheco Jr Class of 1961

Manuel Pacheco Jr
Class of 1961

It was a tragic twist of fate that dad died so close to Halloween. We are not that big on Halloween as it is, but we would decorate; nothing scary, just happy ghosts and pumpkins and cute costumes. Donald would walk the block with the kids in search of candy and dad would stay home and hand out the candy. Dad would usually let me rest and watch TV and get ready for the kids to come home and sort candy. But 2011 was different. We didn’t have time to decorate or celebrate Halloween with all the chaos going on.

That year, I was consumed with dad’s hospice care all during the month of October. Every day presented a new challenge, but things were settling down. We celebrated my birthday on the 18th with what would be our final celebration with dad. I recently found a hidden treasure, a video clip of him singing “Happy Birthday” to me. He seemed so strong and hopeful that day. Three days later however, on my sister’s birthday, he took a sudden turn for the worse and died three days after that, on October 24, 2011.
Dad’s funeral was so tightly scheduled with the VA National Cemetery that our only option for a military burial was on Halloween. It took a lot to keep things as normal as possible for the kids. We were trying to help them grieve and still try to “celebrate” Halloween.

I couldn’t bring myself to think about how to grieve and celebrate on the same day, but we did it. It’s all somewhat of a blur from the service to the procession to the the military burial. We made our way home, skipping the gathering at my sisters. We had to recoup and recover. I made my way to the gathering alone, but, only for a short visit. I had to get back home to “celebrate” Halloween. I tried my best to keep up appearances as we put the kids in their costumes and prepared the candy for our neighbors. The little ones seemed to be excited, but maybe their masks were hiding more than just their face. Julia was not having any of it. This was the first Halloween she was going to skip trick or treating. Dad had been telling her she was going to be his “helper” handing out candy. She was excited to spend alone time with her Papa, but it wasn’t meant to be.

Instead, she and I took over Papa’s job of handing out candy on our first Halloween without him. We didn’t talk much, just handed out candy and watched Charlie Brown together, but this time, she sat next to me. Donald kept his duty of walking the block with the kids. It was strange not to have dad there handing out candy. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through Halloween or Thanksgiving or Christmas or even the next day.

Ironically, the next day was Dia de los Muertos. I was first introduced to the holiday when I was in college as part of a cultural event put on by my sorority. It’s funny how things come rushing back even if you haven’t thought about them for so long. We learned all about how to set up an ofrenda, an altar in honor of welcoming your loved one’s spirits back to earth and about the colorful gatherings at the cemetery. We even took a road-trip across the border to take part in a celebration.

I remember walking along the path to the cemetery, just like everyone else. It was loud and joyful. Cemeteries were supposed to be somber, silent places. You honored your loved ones with silence and prayer, or so I was taught.

The memories of the celebration were calming. I closed my eyes and could see the kids selling beautiful bright colored flowers and I could taste the delicious sugar cane. Families surrounded their loved ones graves. I could hear music and laughter everywhere. It was such a surreal experience in the middle of a cemetery.

I remember appreciating the experience and being intrigued about the idea of welcoming your loved ones souls back to earth for a visit. Up to that point, I had not had anyone close to me die since I was a kid. The idea of “celebrating” Dia de los Muertos was not personal, but I appreciated it from afar.

And then in 2011, afar became near, up close and personal. Here I was, having just lost my dad, deep in grief, struggling to keep it together for myself and my kids with no idea how I was going to do it and then it occurred to me that Dia de los Muertos was exactly what we needed, a way to honor and remember, a way to celebrate and reflect with food, family, friends and faith.

While the kids were still out trick or treating, I looked up Dia de los Muertos events in Houston and another ironic twist was waiting for me. The largest Dia de los Muertos event was being held at MECA-Multicultural Education and Counseling through the Arts , which was housed in dad’s former elementary school, Dow Elementary. I had always wanted to visit the school, but never took the time.
We attended the MECA event, participated in the celebration and community altar. Placing dad’s picture right there, in the middle of the community altar, helped me exhale. It gave the kids a chance to see expressions of love and loss through a cultural and artistic lens in the form of an altar. It made death less scary and unknown and gave us language to talk to the kids about life and death and love.

MECA Community Altar

Hope and Olivia admiring the altar

MECA Community Altar

MECA Community Altar

We went home and made our first attempt at an altar. What we didn’t realize at the time was that we were already building an altar with the flowers from the funeral and little mementos we placed on the fire place at home. We added a few things here and there and made our first altar.

Our first altar

Our first altar

David, Olivia, and Julia

We found ourselves “celebrating” Dia de los Muertos and “participating” in Halloween the next two years. Dia de los Muertos helped us find peace in the middle of pain, life in the middle of death, meaning in the middle of what we thought were unanswerable questions.
The next year, we set up an altar at MECA. I felt compelled to honor dad in a public display in the same hallways he walked as a kid. The girls and I attended Casa Ramirez’s class on how to build a traditional altar. My brother-in-law took dad’s old bed side table and turned it into an altar connected to a display board. It was our very own, portable altar. Donald and I carried it up the steep steps and the kids helped decorate the altar for the MECA display. Building the altar was a beautiful process! Each item was carefully selected. It was like dad’s essence, his soul was present in the tangible things that represented some of his favorite things; like his coffee cup, his crossword puzzle and dictionary, his beer, his eye glasses,his lottery tickets, his hat and Dr. Bear—the stuffed teddy bear the kids gave him to keep company during his hospital stays.

MECA altar

MECA altar

Over the last couple of years, we have built the altars at home. Initially, it was more out of convenience, the portable altar was getting heavy. In preparing for this year’s altar building, I realized that I had integrated many of the pieces of the altar into my home décor and it all made sense to me. Just the like the spirit of the holiday recognizes the fluidity of life and death, love and loss, the altar pieces have become integrated into our home, our way of life and family tradition of honoring our loved ones. This year, I’m especially proud that Julia took part in lighting the candles for the altar, the kids colored the skulls with such artistic talent, and Donald felt compelled to add his parents to the altar. It is not a tradition his family knew or celebrated, but he was always supportive and embraced it as we honored my dad and now we honor his parents.

Julia lighting the altar candles

Julia lighting the altar candles

Dennis and Jewel Goodley

Dennis and Jewel Goodley

Jewel and Dennis Goodley

Jewel and Dennis Goodley

2015 2

The kiddos artistic coloring skulls–Guess who colored theirs orange?

Daniel Goodley age 5

Daniel Goodley age 5

Celebrating Dia de los Muertos has blessed our family, has saved us from the taboo nature of death, has given us language to talk about life and death and love in a healthy, healing way. We will continue to “participate” in Halloween, but we will most definitely CELEBRATE Dia de los Muertos from here on out.

2015 altar 3

2015 Pacheco Goodley Home Altar

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!