Vignettes of My Father

TWO YEARS GONE (March 27, 2021)

When my dad went into hospice care, he didn’t want anyone to see him. He told my mom that he didn’t want to be remembered as the weakened, bedridden man he had become.

Mom told me this, on the telephone, while I sat in my car in the work parking lot.

“So I can’t see him again?” I asked. “But I drive past the house every day. I can’t just drive by, knowing he’s still here and I can’t see him.”

Mom broke him down. I could see him—opening the door for his stepson, oldest son, and others to see him too.

* * *

I still remember my dad as the weakened, bedridden man he had become when the cancer had spread too much to fight. I remember him thin and jaundiced, in the dim light of my parents’ bedroom as classical music played.

But memories aren’t linear. My memories don’t stop there.

I remember my dad, young and burly, speckled with grass shavings, with a baby bunny cupped in his hands.

I remember my dad, months before we knew the cancer was in him, sneaking spoonfuls of corned beef hash under the table to feed my puppy, Edgar, during Sunday brunch on the deck.

I remember my dad, furiously making waffles for a gaggle of screeching preteen girls, the morning after a slumber party.

I remember my dad, protesting sunglasses on our drive to the Grand Canyon, insisting to my brother that he “like[d] the sun in his eyes.”

I remember my dad driving to “The Dump” to drop off our weekly trash, and him saying “Weeee, down the hill!” with me as he drove the van down the earthen mound of the transfer station, away from the garbage and back to the road.

I remember my dad insisting my then-boyfriend Kyle be included in our family portrait session—the last photos we’d ever take with him—because “Kyle is family,” even though we weren’t married. (Kyle and I have since married.)

I remember my dad, sitting at his computer, turned away from the screen and fiddling with a Rubik’s cube, creating patterns with the colors in lieu of “solving” it correctly.

* * *

It’s been two years since we lost my dad. It doesn’t get easier. The pain is always there, but it’s something I’ve become accustomed to, like an old injury that flares up, unannounced.

He still appears in my dreams quite regularly. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that vivid, stressful dreams are a staple of my daily slumber. Whenever Dad shows up in a dream, he’s miraculously healed, alive and well, and is there to rescue me from whatever situation my mind had created for me. The other night, he picked me up from a haunted hotel just as it collapsed into the street, and drove me to safety.

* * *

Dad always loved Jim Croce. After we spread my dad's ashes out west, in Colorado, I listened to Jim Croce's Greatest Hits album on repeat. During one listening, "I Got a Name" started to play just as I drove around a winding, moutainous road.

“Like the pine trees linin' the windin' road / I got a name, I got a name / Like the singin' bird and the croakin' toad / I got a name, I got a name / And I carry it with me like my daddy did / But I'm livin' the dream that he kept hid...”

I will always be a Gilletti. And I’ll carry it with me like my daddy did.

THE THIRD BIRTHDAY AND FATHER'S DAY WITHOUT YOU (June 20, 2021)

As a child, it was a novelty of sorts whenever my dad’s birthday and Father’s Day would coincide—a funny trick, like being double jointed, that could be used to start conversations.

“My dad’s an extra special dad,” I’d say, “because he was born on Father’s Day! He was supposed to be the best dad ever from the start.”

Every few years since then—June 20, 1948–his birthday would land on that Sunday, just a fun, meaningless coincidence until his first child was born in 1977.

***

Jim Gilletti was the hardest person to buy gifts for. He never wanted anything; when it came to spending money, he would buy the essentials and things for others. I joke that every family vacation photo from 1996 onward featured my dad in the same T-shirt.

In that same vein, I could’ve bought Dad the ugliest gifts and he would’ve worn them, too afraid to hurt my feelings with rejection. (My mom told me it was cruel to get him an ugly gift just to watch him wear it, so I never did.)

***

To be honest, I was dreading today. In his life, having my father share a birthday and Father’s Day was special. In his death, it has become two days gone sour, like a gallon of milk left out too long.

It took three birthdays after death to reach this double-whammy.

***

I feel like I’m not using my words properly. I wanted to honor Dad and capture his essence, but nothing is coming out right.

***

Sometimes I feel like my life is divided into three eras of my father: Before Cancer, During Cancer, and After Death. And knowing that the last era will likely be the longest may be the hardest to come to terms with.

***

Today I made scrambled eggs the way my dad taught me: gently whisked in the pan on low heat, constantly moving, allowing the eggs to slowly fluff up.

They were delicious.

***

I’m not sure if I can say “Happy Birthday” or “Happy Father’s Day” because it’s not happy. Because you’re not here.

Author's Note: The above pieces were originally written in 2021 and edited for clarity as of this publishing.