I was thirty-two. I'd been married for four years and my husband was out of town on business when the call came from the hospital. My father had been admitted with severe abdominal pain and an ultrasound revealed a large tumor in his liver. He was diagnosed as having stage three cancer that had spread to other organs.
He lived only two months after diagnosis, and those were some of the worst weeks of my life. In many ways, I wish I could have been twenty again. If I could go back, I would have spent more time with him, I wouldn't have let so much time pass between visits. But at the same time, I'm glad I didn't know what was coming because it might have made me panic.
In the end, I don't think he ever knew how much I loved him. When he died, I felt a great sense of loss but also relief. I didn't want to see him suffer any longer.
The whole thing was so sudden. One day he was fine and the next, he was gone. It's hard to believe he was sixty-eight years old when he died. The man who raised me looked so young. I guess I always thought he would live forever.
After he passed away, I went through his things. His journals, his desk, his clothes. I found a letter from my mother dated a few days before she left us. She said they weren't getting along very well and asked if we could come visit her.
My dad never wrote back. I guess he figured he'd tell us later. I don't blame him. We probably would have taken off without telling anyone where we were going.
But there was something else. A book. A journal. It was leather bound and old. He must have kept it since he was a teenager. I read the first page.
It was written in French. I tried to read it, but I couldn't understand a word. Then I remembered he was from France. That's where he met my mother. They moved here when I was five years old.
So I decided to learn French. I started taking classes and working on my accent. I wanted to speak like my father. And I did, for a while. I can still get by with a basic conversation, but it's not the same.
I wish I could have been twenty again. To have had another chance to spend time with my dad. Maybe then I could have told him how much I loved him. I miss him every day. I remember the last words he spoke to me: Don't forget to write.
And now I do.
I feel like I've lived a thousand lives. I've been rich and poor, good and bad. I've been happy and sad.
When I was younger, I used to wonder what my life would be like if I hadn't been born in this family. Would I have been a criminal or a scientist? A writer or a doctor?
Then I got older and realized there are no such things as accidents.
Everything happens for a reason. There's no such thing as coincidence.
There's just life.
When I was twenty my father gave me a diary. I didn't know it at the time, but it was a gift that would change my life.
I took it everywhere with me, even to college. I filled it with everything I could think of. I wrote about my friends, my family, my teachers, and my dreams. I wrote poems and stories and songs. I even drew pictures.
I didn't realize what it was, for a long time. I thought it was just a diary. I didn't know what it meant to be given a gift.
Then one day I opened it and saw the date on the first page. The day I was born.
That was when I understood.
This was my story.
It was a gift I would cherish forever.
