It's been almost a year since my father died and while people told me it would get easier, and it has, I still miss him very much.

I was reflecting earlier today upon the year we lived through, between when we actually found out he had cancer and when he actually died. It was an experience I will never forget.

It was June of 1990 when I received that call from my mother who had to break the news that the doctors had found a tumor in my step-father. It was a dreadfully long 48 hours before we found out that tumor was malignant and they were planning to operate. I remember flying home alone to be with my family -- and fighting the reality that I had just entered into adulthood, against my will. I questioned where the strength would come from to hold my family together and whether or not that was a rational expectation.

At a time like this, when such a massive amount of data is inputted to your system, it's next to impossible to process your emotions. You experience every aspect of the spectrum: fear, guilt, anger, confusion, divine doubt, grief - and you experience each of them with 250% magnitude. It's the closest I've ever come to the true definition of the word panic.

When the doctors came out of the operating room with green masks and grim faces, you could literally feel us all falling through dead air. "There was nothing we could do at this point." How do you assimilate that? I'll tell you ... very slowly.

There wasn't just one tumor the size of a grapefruit consuming his pelvic cavity, there were also several small ones on the left side of his liver that they were unable to remove. They left the non-functional colon in place and performed a colostomy. They told us we would be very lucky to still have him for Christmas. He was, at that moment, pronounced 'terminal'. 

Those first few nights at home while he was still in the hospital were an emotional hurricane for all of us. There were tears and unanswered questions flowing constantly as we adapted ourselves to the reality and braced ourselves for what was ahead. It was the first time I could remember that my mother was truly at a loss. We were always so close, and yet there was absolutely nothing I could do to reach her.

Together we were confronted with the eventualities of his disease - what kind of things we could expect in the months to come. The pictures they painted were not very appealing. We accepted the facts together, but processed them each in our own way. She was losing her best friend of 40 years and husband of 18; I was looking into a future without the man I had known forever and had grown to love and admire so much; the only man I had ever trusted with all my heart.

We (he) opted for experimental chemotherapy instead of more surgery. There was this gadget that he wore on his belt that pumped liquid poison through a catheter in his chest directly into his liver 24 hours a day. He was "lucky" - there were no side effects from the drugs, but they also didn't work. There were these spiking fevers and chills that my mother had to ice pack during all hours of the night. There was a last straw trip to Sloan Kettering in New York which also produced little hope or results. But there was also a Christmas! And a beautiful Christmas it was, complete with all his favorite foods, all his loved ones, lots and lots of presents, and plenty of material for wonderful memories!

Then there were midnight runs to the hospital, more fevers, lots of drugs and severe weight loss. There was missing hair and personal accidents. There were burns from the medication and appetite loss. Well masqueraded fatigue and fear hung in all of our hearts.

I traveled to Michigan as often as I could during those months. I wanted to be there - physically experiencing all of it. I wanted to be there - emotionally - to help if I could. I did not want to have any regrets when it was over - lost time - things I never said or did. And I wanted to convey to this wonderful person, who had been there for me my whole life, that I was now there for him if he needed me. I wanted him to know that there were no "steps" in my heart between us. And I needed to attempt to take some of the pressure of my mom, and be there for her if and when she finally allowed herself to need me. I didn't want to miss anything. Selfishly, I did not want to be left out of the single most significant event to ever hit my family.

It was Memorial Day weekend when I went to help take him home from his last stay in the hospital. It was then that he told the nurse on duty that he would like her to meet his daughter - not his step-daughter as he had always referred to me. It was undoubtedly the beginning of the end of his life, but it was also the most beautiful day in mine! We had officially bridged whatever gap there had been in semantics.

Things got really complicated from there. We brought him home with this machine that he had to be hooked up to for eight hours a day for nutritional reasons. Special nurses came to the house to show us how to connect and disconnect this contraption, complete with it’s life threatening possibilities. It was too much, way too late. Within 24 hours we had round-the-clock nurses, who quickly became extended family members. While they were an incredible help, it was yet another major adjustment ... complete strangers instantly become an integral part of your intimate life - 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It was also difficult to face that because they were not family, he could confide in them with ease.

On the Fourth of July weekend we got to take him up north to the cottage. My uncle's brother-in-law owns and airport and volunteered to fly him up - with his nurse, of course. It was wonderful that he could be there one more time, but also very sad. Steve and I and Konah all drove in and brought fireworks and happy faces, but it was just a very brave front, and a not very good one at that. We all tried to act normal and even though it may have appeared that way to a stranger, the stress of knowing how far from normal things really were was overwhelming.

It was obvious we were nearing the end and it tore at my heart strings and my loyalty to leave. Again I was plagued with that gripping fear that I might miss something. It was an incredible strain to say good bye and then question whether it might be the last time. I didn’t know how to do this and there is no rule book, no set of instructions. My mom promised me that she would know when the time came, and that she would call.

It was Monday morning, July 29. The sun was shining and I was at the office in the midst of an average day when that call came. I heard my mother -usually so strong- start to crumble on the other end of the line, "I think you better come now, sweetheart". My heart plummeted as I tried to keep my voice from wavering, I simply answered "I'll be there as soon as I can". I hung up the phone and swung into typical form -- immediately making plans. There were flights to coordinate, loose ends to tie up at work, packing to be done. After a tearful good-bye at the office, I left, barely getting out the words that it was "time" and I didn’t know when I'd be back.

It was a unique trip to pack for. I didn't know how long I would be gone and the chances were good that I would need something to wear to bury my father in. I remember sitting on my bed trying to decide what was appropriate for that momentous event -- what was right? I tried to be mature and calm, but inside I was a wreck. My hands shook and the tears streamed. I was on my way in a matter of hours and that flight was the longest 50 minutes I had ever experienced. So many questions: I had wanted to be there, but yet I had absolutely no idea what I was going to do or say once I got there ... why me? ... why him? ... would I survive this? ... could I make him proud even under these circumstances? It just kept spinning -- further and further out of control.

I arrived at the house around 8:30 pm. Despite all my previous visits, the lecture I'd given myself on the plane and the facts, what greeted me was a great shock. My mother looked as if she hadn't slept in a month and for the second time in thirteen long months, she was at a total loss. The nurses tried to prepare me for what was waiting in his room, but their warnings were useless. When I turned the corner I suddenly felt like I'd been punched in the gut. His normal 6 foot, 240 pound frame was reduced to a frail, helpless, dying soul, 175 pounds soaking wet. His skin had turned to a kind of lifeless gray and each breath was more raspy then the last. I choked a tear and climbed up on the bed next to him. With a smile I took his hand and told him it was okay, I was there.

It seemed I talked for hours - not about soul searching, grief stricken thoughts, but about the day-to-day stuff we had talked about and laughed about all the time. The only time I got a response was when I told him I thought Steve's interview that day had gone well. He opened his eyes and smiled at me. That was it. That minute, he knew it was me and he knew I was there. But that minute was over in a flash as they usually are.

Tuesday was worse. The gray got grayer. The rasps got harder. And the quiet got louder. Sometimes I can still hear that awful silence. That night was restless. I remember asking the nurse if it would do any harm if I jumped up and down on the bed and screamed at him until I got a response. "No honey, it won’t do any harm ... but I don’t think it will do any good either" came back at me with a sad smile. I wanted him back ... or gone ... just something other than nowhere!

Wednesday Karen and I got to the edge - we decided we had to get out of that house if only for an hour. We went shopping. I remember both of us turning to one another laughing, and then stopping cold. The guilt for having a little fun was almost too much. With tears in our eyes and agony in our hearts, we went home. Rabbi Hertz was just leaving as we got there. He had come to see how mom was. I remember feeling very comforted by his concern. Aunt Donni and Mom were sitting outside having a cold drink and we joined them. About fifteen minutes later Aunt Donni got up to go to the bathroom. She decided to go back and check on him while she was up. She rushed back to the patio, "Gloria, I just thought you might want to know, Bud's eyes are open now", so gentle she sounded. Mom was up like a flash and on her way to the bedroom. I was right behind her. She was sitting up on the bed next to him, holding his handing and talking so calmly to him. I sat down on the floor beside the bed and took his other hand in mine. The rasp was deafening now. So much effort. The tears and the dread were gushing. My stomach was tightening and expanding simultaneously. It was all so loud. I ran down the hall and outside - I couldn't catch my breath and I was choking on sobs. Aunt Donni jumped when she saw me coming and grabbed me by the shoulders, "Are you alright?" still so calm. I nodded and she was gone - gone to the side of the sister she loved more than anything. Karen was there, with her arm around me. "I can't go back in there alone! I can't! But I want to be there! I have to be ..." I sobbed. "Come on, I'll go with you" she answered and took my hand.

We were kneeling on the floor. I remember my Mom talking. "It's okay, Bud. Your mother's waiting." It was all so horrible. His eyes were open for the first time in two days and he was watching something, but not seeing us. The gasps for air getting longer and louder. She was screaming at the nurse, "Maddie, DO SOMETHING! He's drowning." "Gloria, I can't do anything" came whispering back. "WHY?" she demanded, panicked and angry. "Mom, you know why." And then it was over. The gasping had stopped. And just for an instant, the four women of his life -- his wife, his sister-in-law, and his two daughters, all felt the same agony of loss in completely different ways.

So very much had finally come to an end: The life of one of God's greatest gifts to humanity; a marriage kissed by angels; friendships and love. Just like that and it was over. The finality was overwhelming.

I would like to say that the next few days were a blur, but unfortunately I remember almost every single detail - from the phone calls to the visitors to the flowers and the overpowering smell of lilies to picking out the casket to talking to the florist to seeing my father for the first time in three days laying in a box to following the hearse to listening to the prayers to watching them lower him into the ground and to finally having to say "good-bye". The thing I remember the best however are the stories. For days, as people drifted in and out of our crisis I heard stories - wonderfully funny and endearing stories from so many people whose lives he had touched. I knew in my heart that for generations to come, he would be remembered.

The days and weeks that followed are hard to explain. I had expected to completely fall apart once the inevitability of his disease had finally happened. For months I wondered how I would survive his death and "go on living". I had expected some kind of emotional paralysis, but it never came and what happened instead was equally as surprising. I remember lying in bed the night we buried him and saying to my husband, "It's the strangest thing ... I can feel him everywhere". The void I had anticipated for months was filled with his presence. It was as if he were still with me, guiding me as he always had in his strange, but loving way. I didn't feel alone or lost or empty - none of the things I expected were happening. This feeling wasn't just for one night either - he was there with me the next morning and for weeks to come. I had long conversations with him while driving my car, just before I fell asleep at night and really, any time I needed him. I could hear his typical answers to my all too typical questions and his ever positive attitude helped me get through the first few months after his death. I had been so afraid of living without him and yet I didn't have to.

I tried to tell my family about it, even though it sounded a bit strange. I mean how does a grown woman explain having conversations with her dead father - two way conversations. My mother said she understood what I was talking about, but that she didn't feel his presence at all. I concluded that he knew I was the one who needed him the most. I even asked him for signs that he could hear me - proof that I was not losing my mind. He gave me all the proof I needed.

We had a family friend whose son was having a lot of difficulties. Following another suicide attempt, his parents and loved ones were at their wits end. My Aunt Donni asked me (kind of jokingly) if I would ask Uncle Bud to help this boy, Steven. So one night before I fell asleep, I was having one of these conversations and I remember saying, "Vicki and Ray's son Steven is in trouble and he needs your help and guidance. You know things now and you can help him." The next morning when I woke, my heart was heavy and he had left me. I figure he was on to bigger and better things now - I was doing okay and after all, I was the one who asked him to help. I miss having him with me all the time, but he still comes around every once in a while.

That spiritual power was only one of the things I learned during this experience. I also learned a lot about life - funny how death can teach you about the living. I learned truly how short and how precious life is and when people say to make the most of it, I wonder if they know how right they are. Even though he was dying those last few months, he never lost sight of what living was all about. He took the time to smell the flowers he loved and he never got angry at life for dealing him such a rotten hand in the end - he never once complained. His strength in facing his body's weaknesses was both amazing and inspiring.

I also learned a lot about people -- accepting and adapting to what each individual person is instead of waiting for them to be what you want, or spending futile time trying to change who they are. It's important to just see what is and enjoy it, even though that is often the most difficult path to choose. He may not have done or said the things some of us would have liked to hear, the way we would have liked to hear them - but reflecting, I know all the right messages were there. He died his way and I respect him for that - for not changing his person at the end to try and be what someone else may have wanted. 

Watching the various ways that others handled his death was a learning experience as well. For some, empathy and comfort came naturally. For others, death is so foreign it puts them at a loss of what to say and what to do. I had several friends, who needed more from me, in terms of helping them "help me", than I needed from them in my time of grief. I learned to let each be okay in it's own right.

And most of all, I learned about love - the foundation of parenthood. For years I had clung to my biological father, waiting for him to materialize into the father I thought I deserved and wanted so desperately. While I loved my Uncle Bud, he was, in fact, not my natural father. While he was alive I struggled a lot between my loyalties to the two men in my life. It was never easy to place them in their respective roles and take what I needed from each of them, but I did it, for years. I wasted so much time on expectations and disappointments. After he died I realized I'd had my "real father" all along, always there when and where I needed him. It was his final gift to me ... the knowledge, the love, the comfort.

Being a father isn't about genetics, it's about love and presence and consistency and faith. From the day I was born my Uncle Bud was there for me. When I was eight, he married my mom and we moved to Michigan. That was when life really began for us. We spent time together like fathers and little girls should. He helped me with my homework and drove me to school. He taught me to play cards and then later how to drive. He taught me about balancing a checkbook and later gave me a race horse so I could share in his much loved hobby - and serve as a tax shelter. He gave me guidance and support on every hurdle I attempted to jump, whether the jump was successful or not never mattered. He sent me to college and helped me with Statistics long distance. He came to parents weekend every year and graduation when it was time. He taught me about loyalty and courage. When I got engaged he told me that all he cared about was that my wedding day was perfect. He didn't want me to ever have any regrets. He made that day like a fairy tale for me. He told me it was my "father's" right to give me away and when I told him he was my father and it was his place, he refused. So I had them both. When we couldn't afford a honeymoon, he arranged one. He helped us buy our first house from his hospital bed and even came for our first Christmas to help put up the tree. He taught me about love by the best example ... he truly did love my mother more than life itself, until death did they part. And never once did he go back on his word. He was my father whether genetics agreed or not, and I would like to believe that I'm just as much like him as if I'd come from the same family tree.

It's been almost a year now and I do still miss him terribly, but really he's just as close as ever and even more loved by me than before. I try every day to live up to my potential and be the kind of person we both hoped I'd grow up to be. I hope he's proud of who I am. And I hope when people get to know me they walk away thinking with a smile, "she's so much like her father."