Diabolina Does Deep Thoughts
There was no way around it. August was going to be heavy. Always is. It's the month my stepdad died.
But this August, this year, marked the 15th anniversary of his death. So I was prepared to be emotional. I was prepared to do some writing. Work through some grief. Think some deep thoughts ;)
But then my mom got diagnosed with the tumor and I didn't have time to breathe much less mourn. I didn't have time to write or process or close certain chapters.
Now that my mom has decided to watch the tumor for 3 months and delay the surgery until after the holidays, I am getting back to "normal." And back to thinking about everything else.
Including my dad. Here's something I wrote two years ago. I love it. I love remembering him. I wish he was here now, through all this, making her laugh and holding my hand...
***I can't remember when I met him. I wasn't particularly conscious yet. Not really. Maybe 3 or 4.
Just think about that. I was some random other man's child and he loved me. Right away he treated me like I was his – when I wasn't. He took me in as his own. Into his home and his heart and his soul. When I wasn't, when I wasn't his.
Who does that??? Nowadays, who does that???
Someone who is a god, who is magic, who is a real man. Someone who adored my mom and got a package deal. He got her beautiful brown eyes PLUS he got me – crazy wonderful problematic me. He got her, beautiful radiant wonderful her, plus he got these little chubby cheeks.
Not a bad deal.
He held my hand. Every time. Every time we'd get out of his beautiful Cadillac, his hand would search for mine. He'd reach out for my hand like it gave him strength or purpose. Like I meant something. This self made man – this gifted business man - this beautiful Los Angeles player. He searched for MY hand. This little girl. This little immigrant girl. This little quiet girl who liked to read. And wasn't his. Not really.
Who was I to deserve it? He was somebody. He came from nothing but had somehow built something. Something important. Something lucrative. He had built a dream, his dream. Something to be proud of.
He had stores at the Beverly Hills Hotel, at the Century Plaza, at South Coast. That doesn't mean anything to you but it did to him. He made it materialize from nothing. He dressed Diana Ross. He was gifted. He worked hard and got lucky. Like millions of people do but don't. He was this kid from Indiana who made it. In Hollywood of all places.
I wasn't anybody. Not just yet. I was 3 or 4. My first language was Spanish. My mother was an immigrant. I never met my real father. I was trying to figure out what it all meant. I was just D, little chubby cheeked D. Not really anybody. Not yet.
Yet I was somebody to him. Somebody that gave him strength. Somebody that made him laugh. Somebody that made him sparkle. Somebody whose hand he reached out for. Everytime. I was somebody who meant something to him.
I was 3 or 4 not sure which. When my mom met this man. This man who would be my father. My god. The divine broken beautiful man in my life.
He saw me. And I saw him. We were both judging and appraising each other. Wondering if the other was worthy. And I guess we decided we were. Because we became friends, best friends. However a grown man and 3 or 4 year old girl can become friends. Real friends. We did.
I loved him and he loved me. We joked and we laughed. We ate and shopped and watched movies and just adored each other. He was my father and I was his child. Nothing is better than that. Nothing could be better than when you live it and breathe it. When you choose who your father is and you choose who your daughter is.
And then it changed. In a moment, a pivotal moment, it all changed. I don't know why but it did. Forever.
It had nothing to do with me and him and at least I know that. At the very least, I know that what he and I had transcends everything. No matter what happened.
No matter what, he was my god and I was his chubby cheeks. It doesn't get better than that, right? It couldn't get better than that.