The Midlife

Father’s Day is always bitter sweet in my household. My father, Marcelino, died far too soon at age 60, and when I was just 12 years old. I often wonder what would have become of our relationship had he lived to see his six children grow up and become self-sufficient human beings. He would have been 94 in an ideal world.

My Dad defied conformity in every way. He was a well-respected cardiologist and internist, and was a smoker for many years. He worked long hours, and always made me feel that life was full of adventure and exploration. I know there were days he would come home from work tired, yet he made me feel loved and valued. He embodied the term larger than life, with his rotund figure and hearty, jolly laugh. I miss him.

Wherever he is and if heaven exists, I hope he and my sister (also gone too soon and, unfortunately, to cancer) are having a drink and enjoying a funny story until the day I can thank him for all he has instilled in me. I remember he pushed me hard to get good grades and to be the best in everything I set out to do. And he loved people hard with a limitless joy. I take that with me.

Speaking of fathers, I know another great one: my husband. When we were dating and our relationship became quite serious, I knew he was the one to marry, just by the way he spoke about wanting to have children. He changed my mind from “maybe I could have them,” to “I must have one with this man.” He’s kind and patient and in some ways tries for the ultimate childhood do-over with our daughter. It’s a sight to behold.

I’m grateful to all the Dads out there doing their best and figuring things out in the best way. I know it feels like you don’t often know what you’re doing, but sometimes there’s a beautiful wonder in that, the not knowing and trying with all your might.