Letters from Yesterday

Under my bed, there is a box. Though most people have boxes under their beds, those boxes usually have forgotten toys, clothing, or other unimportant articles which would be just as well in the trash as they are under the bed. But the box under my bed is filled with some of the most important things to me. When opened, one will find colorful cards for about every occasion inside. Most people wouldn’t think twice about those cards. They are just pieces of paper with forced greetings on the front and a short "personal" message inside. For most, those things would be easily thrown away shortly after being received, but the cards within this box hold the most important thing in the world to me. The words of a father I never got the chance to grow up with.

When I was four years old, my father was diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer. They only gave him a few months to live, but my father was always the stubborn sort. From an early age, I had to watch my father face some of the most terrifying experiences. After his chemotherapy, I had to watch my big tough dad grow thin, weak, and tired. One day I will always remember is the day his hair started falling out. My dad had always loved his hair and I watched him cry for the first time of my life as he realized what the chemotherapy was doing to his body. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, but I knew my dad was struggling to cope with it, and I knew things would never be the same.

Despite his valiant fight against the cancer, it had spread from his lungs to his brain and lymph nodes. There wasn’t much the doctors could do at that point and the chemo was only moderately effective. My father continued to grow weaker and weaker, and soon my family and I were walking through a funeral home, making all the final decisions. As a child, I wasn’t very sure what all of it meant. The adults were talking about all sorts of things and they seemed very serious, but I had never seen anyone die before, and anyone I had ever seen get sick had gotten better. Why should my dad be any different? Though my parents tried their best to explain to me what was going to happen, it never really sank in. My dad would always be there, so I had thought.

One morning when I was seven, my father could no longer stand on his own. He was taken to hospice and my mother and I went to visit him. Still, I had no idea what was about to happen. Dad had been to the hospital many times before. This time was no different. The doctors would make him better and we would go home in a few days. So when some family friends offered to let me stay the night with them instead of at hospice, I didn’t hesitate to accept. To this day, it is my greatest regret.

That night, my father died. I wasn’t there for him. I was sleeping soundly at a friend's house and when I woke, my mother told me he was gone. The concept of death finally sunk in. I will always remember the look on my mother’s face, the feeling of numbness that spread through my body, and even the way I was sitting on my knees at the very edge of the bed. At just seven years old, I remember every detail of that moment. I knew the life of both my mom and I was about to change drastically, and it would never be the same again.

Time passed and slowly we learned to live without my father around, though things were indeed never the same again. My dad was gone, and I was still here, searching for reasons why I didn’t have a father anymore. Or at least, not in a physical sense. My father had made sure he would always be with me, but in a different way.

One birthday while I was opening gifts, I picked up the next present and opened the card. I stared at the message inside. In forced and untidy handwriting were the words of my father. He had written me cards for every big occasion of my life, my mother told me. Milestone birthdays, getting my driver's license, my first day of high school, graduation, my wedding, and even the birth of my first child. Despite his great pain, my father had written me all these cards from his deathbed in hospice. It was his final gift to me. His way of saying goodbye, but also of saying hello.

The loss of my father made me learn to cherish life, love, and friendship from an early age. Sometimes, you don’t know when someone is going to leave. Perhaps only for a short time, or maybe forever. Not everyone understands the importance of ending each conversation with love. I don’t remember the last conversation I had with my father, but I remember telling him that I loved him while he laid in that bed in hospice. I’m happy that I got to tell him that before he left, so that I can live in peace that at least he knew how much I loved him.

Though I would trade anything in the world to have my father physically back at my side, my dad wanted me to know he would always be there. Through his love and through his letters, he impressed upon me the importance of letting people know how much you care and how much they mean to you. For all you know, there may not be another time to tell them what you want to say. Always be open, be honest, be gentle. You will always regret conversations ended in anger or hatred. These are the things my father taught me, through the letters he left behind him.