Remembering my beloved dad

He was a damn good one.

It breaks my heart to write that two weeks ago on February 26, 2024, in Guadalajara, Mexico, my father left us. Born on March 28, 1942, he was just shy of 82. He had been facing many health challenges, but this was sudden and unexpected. We were very close; the grief is raw and overpowering and I’m very much in the thick of it. He was my lifelong cheerleader, my top supporter, and an unconditionally loving dad.

I’ve written about my father in previous Gen Xandwich newsletters. About ambiguous loss, dementia and the long goodbye, and about care migration and his move to a nursing home in Mexico at the end of last year. I suppose this is the last chapter in my experience of care as it relates to him, though there is so much to look back on, to share and to process.

There are a lot of new people here since my last newsletter (hi 👋🏽 - I’m glad you are here) and I’m realizing that an obituary of sorts may be a strange introduction to your inbox. But the only thing that makes sense right now is to share some stories about my dad, and a few reflections that have made it through the gloomy fog of grief. This is, after all, a very real and inevitable part of the care experience.

A Final Interview

When I was in Guadalajara last month - a trip I am incredibly grateful that I took - I recorded an interview with my dad. I almost didn’t, because it never felt like the right time, there were other people around, and I honestly felt a little self-conscious about asking him to indulge me. Did it seem like something you ask for when you fear that time is fleeting? The truth is, it was, and there was a little voice in me that said “you never know when will be the last chance.” It felt like we only scratched the surface of what could have been many interviews, but I’m so glad we at least had this one.

My dad spoke about his time at the University of Washington in the 1960s when he served as student body president. He was part of the Sigma Nu fraternity during the time when an amendment was proposed that would allow people of color to join the fraternity. He was a vocal supporter civil rights, and was deeply disturbed when the amendment failed to pass. He left the fraternity and cut off all contact. Shortly after he died, I found an archive of the 1964 UW yearbook online, with some amazing photo gems of my dad from that time.

My dad in the University of Washington 1964 yearbook. He was ASUW president.

After graduating college, my dad lived in Iran for a year under the Shaw, traveled through central and south Asia, and attended Princeton Theological Seminary for a year. While he said Princeton Seminary was the best educational experience he had, he left seminary (and the church) shortly thereafter. Throughout my teens and twenties, we had many long, philosophical dinnertime conversations about why he left the church, whether he was atheist or agnostic, and what the difference was. Those conversations taught me so much about him, about history and politics, and the art of philosophical debate.

My dad went back to UW to complete a PhD in Psychology in the 70s - the height of his hippie days - and he kept up the leadership and activism with things like a march onto the I-5 freeway to oppose the Vietnam war. He married my mother, and in 1976 my brother Leif was born with Down Syndrome. At that time, genetic testing for Down’s was not commonplace, so my parents didn’t know until he was born - and the doctors shared a pessimistic outlook. They prepared my parents for the idea that he would never walk or talk, and suggested he be given up and placed in an institution (advice they did not follow). In our recent interview, my dad shared just how incredibly difficult and dark that time was for him. Accepting this experience of parenting that was nothing like what he had imagined did not come easy, though he went on to bond with and love my brother very much. I wish I’d had more time to dive into his experience as a caregiver to a disabled child in the 1970s.

My dad at some point in the 1980s

My dad and my brother in April 2023

I was born three years to the day after my brother, then my parents divorced, and we lived with my mother until our teenage years, but my dad was always an engaged father. When we were younger, he took us on camping trips, and when I was a teen he was the cool dad who always said yes to being the concert chauffeur and (very chill) chaperone.

My father supported and encouraged me to learn Spanish, bought me my first books on Frida Khalo, shared Pablo Neruda’s poetry, took me on my first trips to Mexico and Guatemala, and supported my gap year to live in Spain and study Spanish. He was so proud of the fact that I learned to speak Spanish and of my career in social impact in Latin America. I’m so thankful that I recently told him just how influential he was in encouraging me down this path.

In his husband Jackson’s words, as a young person my dad “thought he was too liberal to be gay, that he just loved who he loved.” But I can say that when my dad came out, it was one of the biggest “ah-ha” moments of my life. I thought “so that’s what it is!” there was always something I felt like he was hiding, or that was different, and it sort of bothered me in the back of my mind. When he told us he was gay, the pieces fell into place and there was a sense of relief. He married the love of his life, Jackson, when I was 17 or 18, and I lived with them for a few years in my late teens and twenties. Our families came together surprisingly well.

Our big blended family on a trip to Kauai in 2021. My dad is on the left in front, holding my daughter Astrid.

I can only hope to be the kind of parent and grandparent that my dad was: truly supportive, honest, fun, generous and loving. I love and miss him so much.

Reflections

They say you never get over losing a parent, that the grief simply grows around the new person you are. The outpouring of love and both emotional and tangible support from friends, family, colleagues and acquaintances has meant so much. It can be incredibly hard to know what to do or say in times like these; I know I’ve been paralyzed into doing nothing by this feeling. But there is no right thing to do, it’s the gestures and love that matter. It’s the gift of knowledge that there is someone to take care of you when you’re hurting so deeply, that you are not alone - that is everything.

For those whose parents are still here: ask them questions, listen to the stories, and record the interviews. I’m so glad I have not only the recording with my dad, but also voicemail messages from his frequent calls over the last few months. I haven’t brought myself to listen to any of the audio yet, but it’s comforting to know I have it for when I’m ready. I never want to forget his voice.

On our last phone call, my dad’s speech was slurred from a recent stroke, but he so desperately wanted me to know he was ok, and not to worry. He knew that we were both one of each others’ closest and most important humans. He may not have been ok in the immediate sense, but I believe that he needed me to know that in the grand scheme, we would both be ok.

A friend shared these words with me, and I can hear my father as I read them:

A love letter from those who have passed on

by Tahlia Hunter

Take the love you have for me

And radiate it outwards

Allowing it to touch and impact others

Take the memory you have of me

And use it as a source of inspiration

To live fully, meaningfully and intentionally

Take the image you have of me in your mind

And allow it to fuel you

To take action

Seize the day

And be reminded of what is most important in life

Take the care you have for me

And let it remind you

To care for yourself fully

And shower yourself with your own love

And take the pain and grief you feel

Following my loss

And alchemize it into

Love, compassion and beauty

Build a castle

From the wreckage of my passing

And allow it to unlock your greatness and potential

And empower you to become more than you ever thought you were capable of being

And know that I can never truly leave you

And will always remain beside you

Watching over you in spirit

And that the love I have for you lives on

Through the connections you form

The kindness and compassion you share

And the future relationships and friendships you cultivate.

And until we are one day reunited

I will remain with you

Through the storms and chaos of life

And am always beside you

Walking with you, laughing with you, crying with you and smiling with you

And I am proud of you for being strong

I am proud of you for being brave

And I am proud of you for being you.