It’s Father’s Day, that Sunday in late June when fathers around the world receive gifts of ties, cheap cologne and handmade cards then crack a few beers and fire up the grill to celebrate.
In our family, Father’s Day evolved over the years. In grade school, Dad usually got a card, made in school as a project. When we got older, Bob and I chipped in and bought him a gift, which usually was placed into a drawer or closet, never to be seen again.
As the years passed Father’s Day evolved into backyard cookouts of sardines, a Spanish thing, grilled shrimp, Italian sausage and juicy steaks, chased with lots of wine. As the family grew, Bob became a Dad, the spread of grew as well. You never left Mom and Dad’s house hungry.
This is my Father’s Day as a member of the club but my mind is not on traditional gifts of cards, polo shirts, ties or scratchies, scratch-off lottery tickets, the traditional Puerto Rican gift for any holiday, or backyard cookouts, it’s on my father.
Two months ago Dad was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. A month ago, he was given two weeks to live. A priest gave him last rights and funeral arrangements were made, but he’s still here. That doesn’t surprise me—he’s always been a fighter.
I’ve spent the past two months in hospitals, talking to doctors and fighting with supervisors when I felt he wasn’t getting the proper care. I’ve dreaded late-night calls, those were usually bad news. “We are moving him to new room and putting him on oxygen” or “we need your permission to resuscitate him if it’s necessary.”
The only bright spot of the past two months has been bringing Cristian to visit Abuelo in the nursing home. Seeing the glint in Dad’s hazel eyes and the smile on his face gives me unspeakable joy.
Although I love my son, my first Father’s Day is will always be bittersweet because I know it’s my Dad’s last.