The Buttercream: A Eulogy for my Father, Part 1.

When I made the buttercream, my father was still alive.

It's an Italian buttercream, made with the egg whites separated from the yolks that went into the French buttercream which decorated Lulu's birthday cake and cupcakes.  There's an entire tub of it left in my mom's fridge.

I made it on a Sunday morning, when I still thought Dad was coming home.  He had been in the hospital since the Wednesday previous.  We knew he would not be present for Lulu's birthday party that day but we expected to have him home the next day to finish out the Memorial Day holiday with us. 

But the next morning, the nurse on duty, unable to bear our continued ignorance, finally broke down and told us what his attending physician lacked the balls to do:  she told us that our father had weeks, not years remaining.  And Tuesday morning the prognosis was that he had but days.  The reality was actually two days.  Thursday evening, he took his last breath, but not before opening his eyes one last time to look at my mother, me, and my younger son, who is his namesake; a final, corporeal exchange before slipping into the ethereal.

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When I danced with my dad at my wedding, the song I chose was Edith Piaf's Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.  It's a love song, but I've always considered it an anthem to his life. His was a larger than life kind of life.  A son born into privilege in Vietnam in 1932, his mother died when he was only a year old, her role subsequently fulfilled by an older half-sister and an aunt; his father passed away when Dad was 15.  Shortly thereafter, Dad left home and went to Hanoi after a dispute with the wife of his elder brother regarding money that had been set aside for his education.  He made his way in the world by himself and achieved for himself much success.  But my father always considered his greatest success was raising us to be productive and reasonably sane members of society. 

In Vietnam he had been a senior member of the intelligence community.  In Vietnam, he had been a Lt. Colonel.  When his country fell, with it went every security he had previously enjoyed:  position, wealth, a future.  He came to the States as an immigrant, considered his options, and decided that his future, the one he had planned for himself, was a thing of the past; the only future(s) on which he wanted to focus, was ours.  The CIA wanted him to come work for them; but he demurred.  That wasn't his life anymore. 

His first job in the United States was as a fry cook at Long John Silver's.  Because he was competent, because he was focused, because he was timely, because he never complained, he was promoted to assistant manager.  He earned $2.10 an hour.  To supplement his income, he took another part time job, as a hotel security guard.  He had a wife and five small children.  He was proud but never TOO proud; or prideful.  Just quiet, capable, professional.  If ever he looked back on the life he had had...we never knew it because he never referred to it.

He moved us to Arlington, Virginia because he thought it offered us so much more than the quiet college town in which we were then ensconced.  And he became a cashier at a local grocery store where for 27 years, he never missed a day of work and was late only once - but that was because he had to walk the five miles in 3 feet of snow.  He even had his massive heart attack during the week he took vacation.  If I took a picture of my father and titled it, "Work Ethic," everyone who knew him would agree.  And they would also agree with this other epitaph:  "Great Father."  At this job, where during his healthiest and most profitable year he cleared maybe $43,000, my father achieved the singular feat of putting five children through college.  Hello financial aid, second and third mortgages and everything else he had to put on the line to secure our futures; he considered education our birth right.  We never knew we had an option to not attend college.  He was in debt until the age of 73, when he happened to catch a lovely real estate crest and sold his home for enough money to clear out all his debts.

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Dad suffered from Parkinson's the last seven years, during which time it robbed him of his facility with life (though it never took his zest or zeal for it).  But that's not what took him from us.  It turns out that the prostate cancer which had afflicted him fifteen years earlier (oh did I mention earlier that he never took time off from work even during chemo and radiation treatments?) had actually metastasized into the bone approximately five years ago, but none of us knew this...not even Dad.  How such momentous information could have slipped us is at once staggering...and a blessing.

Let me share with you what happened in the last five years:  Dad moved from Arlington to Orlando; he visited me several times in Georgia, visited my siblings in New York and Santa Monica; and saw the births of three grandchildren. 

What I'm trying to say is that Dad lived his life fully and richly.  He didn't spend it in treatment for the bone cancer.  He didn't suffer through more chemo or radiation.  He didn't live with a death sentence hanging over him, with hopelessness marking his days.  Instead, he simply lived, taking every day that came along as a treat.  And we did too.  Because none of us knew he had advanced bone cancer.

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I took his shirt from the hospital bag, the last one he wore, the only one that still smelled like him.  The scent is fading and every day it smells less like him.

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I can say with all certainty that my father died without regrets; and while we are stricken to have lost him, we have no regrets where he is concerned, either.  I would gladly have another hug, another kiss, another moment to talk.  But I had this throughout my life and even to the end, he still kissed us, or tried to; so I don't feel that I missed out on anything with Dad.  What I do miss...is Dad himself. 

I miss him so much I wonder how this yawning emptiness will ever be filled again; I wonder how I can meet the next five or six decades of my life with this huge gaping hole inside.  I wonder how I manage to wake up every morning and function in a world where my dad no longer exists.

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Children should love their parents.  If they're really lucky, they're in love with their parents.  Guess what category we put ourselves in?

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Before I left my mother's house, I cleaned out the fridge.  But the tub of buttercream sat there.  I couldn't touch it. 

Because when I made that buttercream, my dad was still alive.

Comments

[Beth Anne]

Oh Cath....I am so sorry to hear about your father. The loss of a parent, expected or otherwise, is one of the most difficult trials in a person's life and not one that anyone can remedy with words. My heart is with you. You've done your father proud with this eulogy, it was a wonderful tribute.

[Irene]

I'm so sorry, Cath. This is one of the most beautiful things I've read, ever. All I can say is that I understand the way you feel about your dad. Aren't we the lucky ones to have angels in this world?

[Jaspreet]

Dear Cath, I am so sorry for your loss. Your eulogy was lovely. I hope that memories will continue to comfort you.

[Jenna]

So sorry for your loss - he was clearly loved.

[Holly]

What a profound, beautiful and touching tribute to your Father. I'm sure he had as much joy in you and your family as you had in him. I'm so sorry he is no longer here, but he is definitely a presence that will never die. I'm sending all my good thoughts to you and your family. I hope someday to be able to know that my children think of me with even a tenth of this kind of feeling.

[barbara]

Cath I always wondered about your father. From your references to him in previous posts I had the impression he was a very special person. This post confirms just how special he was. This is a beautiful tribute to him. Hugs.

[pam]

I am so sorry for you loss. What a beautiful post and tribute to your father.

[DebinHawaii]

Cath, that was a beautiful post and such a great tribute to your dad. I am very sorry for your loss. I lost my dad almost 16 years ago and the ache is still there, although it eases over time and the happy memories are what is felt the most. Hang in there--my thoughts are with you and your family.

[cath]

Thank you all so much for your love, support and kindness... It means a great deal -- an extended network of comfort as it were.

Any beauty in the writing I can't claim for myself; my father was a beautiful man and I am simply transcribing...

[Jen]

Wow! Let me just say, I am not a blogger, and I really do not even read bloggs, but somehow I stumbled on to yours.

Six years ago my father died on the Sunday morning preceeding the Memorial Day holiday. He had lung cancer and had been in treatment for a year. He did awesome! Worked through the entire experience, (he was a teacher)and never lost his zeal. We were under the impression that his cancer was well under control and treatment had made a remarkable difference. At a routine checkup, we were told the cancer had metzd to his liver. That was Thursday...he died Sunday.

I say all of this so that I may tell you with some confidence that the hole you currently have will never be completely filled, only made smaller with time.

It has been six years...and not a day goes by that I do not think of my dad and feel a deep longing. But it gets easier...

Just felt a need to tell you that.

[sherry]

what lovely memories to have, to have a parent that is that dedicated to life and family so pleseant to hear, thank you for sharing.

[Easy Appetizers]

What a beautiful eulogy to your Dad. Thanks so much for sharing. Having lost my father a few years ago too, I can understand exactly how you feel. My heart goes out to you.

[ali]

Thank you for sharing your father's life with us. I am touched.

[emiglia]

Cath, this is one of the most beautiful love letters to a parent I've ever read. I feel for you and I send you and your family my prayers during your time of grief.

[Wendy]

Oh Ki, having known you for more than 20 years, I can only sigh and think to wish it away. I grew up without a father, so the one I dream of is one like yours. A man of substance, humor, strength, honor, and ethic. I do wonder how my life would be different with that balance. I feel your hurt and yet, I am so envious of the years you had. Much love to you.