Living like dad

Two years ago I was getting ready to go to a father's day picnic while in the hell of pre-diagnosis limbo. I didn't know but I knew. And I was experiencing life in a strange way. My friend Ashlyn described it best in a recent post on her own blog when she said that the pre-diagnosis stage is by far the worst part of cancer. Everything after - the treatment, the puking, the wretchedness - is completely manageable in comparison.

But getting a few hours that day to be with my family was good. Watching my dad approach the ne'er do-wells near our picnic with the faint scent of silverback on him and realizing that I didn't want to die before he did.

Here's the thing about my dad. Everyone says they have the best father in the world, but they're bullshitting you. Because mine was cut from a completely different cloth. He made it okay for me to grow up strange while still making me answer to stuff. He was the dad who brought home treats every time he went to the gas station and never complained when I asked him to get me something from the kitchen. I abused that service and he never complained about that.

He put up with my picky eating and sang "Angelina" to me when he served up the spaghetti. He put Saan flyers on my dresser when I wasn't looking and kicked my butt down the hall when I got snarky.

He watched me go out in hot pants and fishnets and bustiers, my mom's rosary around my neck and only balked when the hot pants had rips in them. If there were ulcers burning, he didn't say so.

When I moved to Vancouver, he cried in my new Kits living room.

And when I was diagnosed, he was strong and just there and starting juicing when I did. He still does today.

My dad has taught me that beyond food and supplements and running and yoga and meditation there is kindness and fun and a twinkle in your eye that can make you live forever.

I love you, Dad.