This one's for my dad.

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I was thinking a lot about my dad yesterday. This is because yesterday was the three year anniversary of his death. He died at age 64, from cancer, at Southlake Hospital in Newmarket. This year was the first year I was able to think about that time without being overcome with abstracted grief.  The kind of sadness and grief that made me, on the first year anniversary of his death, reverse my wee VW – at reasonable speed – into the back of a sturdy (and enormous) pickup truck. I was certain that I had checked and double-checked to make sure there was nothing behind me, but I was, more or less, blinded by sadness. One smashed taillight (mine) and dented rear-hatch (also mine) later, I realized it was probably not safe for me to be driving on that day. (There was no damage to the pickup truck that I could see. He or she never responded to my apologetic note, either, so I assumed my assessment was accurate.)

My dad was so proud of me, and he told me often. He was proud of me for getting my university degree, for finding a career that gave me both creative and monetary satisfaction, and for my general independence. But he was also so proud of me for being athletic. I was born quite premature, and the doctors (so my dad told me) said that even if I survived brain-intact, I would never be able to achieve physically.  Something about my lungs and their less-than-optimal functioning.  So he was always so thrilled to hear about how much I loved running and cycling, and would make a point of telling me that that I was never supposed to be good at either of those things.

I miss you Dad. Just so you know, I am working hard to get back on my bike. I’m keeping busy with working out, just to make sure these lungs of mine stay in shape for the moment my leg is ready to bike again.