Christmas is my favorite time of the year.  There is so much celebration through music, decoration and overall spirit immediately following Thanksgiving.  Because of this there is nostalgia and memories associated.. memories of our dreams and the joy of being a child.  The innocence of life then, knowing nothing about work and monetary stress, sickness or death.

This is the third Christmas without my dad.  He passed away two years ago on December 21st after melanoma finally overtook him and his body shut-down..he was only 63 , I was 25. 

My dad was the foundation for my family.  We moved every couple of years as a military family (he retired from the USMC after 26 years in 1987) but he always gave us traditions that followed everywhere.  Things like church, holiday celebrations and Friday pizza.  He enrolled my brother and I in karate and sat through every class Wednesday and Saturday.  He bought a boat and a truck to pull it out to Buena Vista, and even though I was the only one to ski/wakeboard...that was what we did Sundays.  Every award in high school, he would leave his job for an hour to attend.  He was always there for me, and I thought he was going to be forever.

There was a "scab" on his chest (former marine/bodybuilder -- he loved sunbathing/working on the yard with no shirt) my sister and I asked my dad to have looked at, as he had it for a long time. "My doctor's seen it, it's nothing," he said.  Shortly afterwards he found out it was Stage III Melanoma.  What's worse is his doctor had known about it for years!  Shortly after we moved here there was an article in a  Californian inserts (was it called Heritage?) about skin cancer and he said his heart dropped when he saw the picture for melanoma.  He asked his doctor at Kaiser about it and he said it wasn't melanoma, without referring him to a dermatologist...and my Dad accepted the answer.  It wasn't until 2001, when the spot doubled in size and was still growing quickly that (and I've seen his record) they finally referred him to a dermatologist and he was diagnosed with cancer.

Fast forward 3 years of being cancer free and he found a bump under his arm that  was cancerous.  He did radiation treatment and it stopped it.

Fast forward another year and he had an MRI on his entire body.  He was glad not to hear anything until the call came a month later: it had spread near his kidneys.  I didn't know what that meant at the time but from his tone, despite not saying anything specific, I knew it was very bad.

Fast forward 3 weeks and I was standing next to his bed in the emergency room with no idea why he was acting so drugged.  6+ hours later we're told he was experiencing renal failure and would need dialysis, with the possibility he had a stroke because of the spots on his brain CAT scan -- but once I mentioned melanoma the doctor wanted to confirm whether it was blood clots or melanoma.  It was the latter.

The ICU neurologist gave my dad 3 months to live on September 11th, 2005 ...he died December 21st.  His oncologist told me it was remarkable he lived as long as he did and attributed it to his physical well-being. 

Over the course of three months I watched my hero wither away while learning an incredible amount about cancer.  I, being human, questioned my decision to let him live but I have since accepted it as *not* being selfish.  Once he had some clarity, as short as it was, he said he wanted to live.  I treasure those last moments, knowing he was going to die much sooner than later, hearing him laugh and just being Dad.  He knew I was by his side and trusted me, that is important to me...it's because he raised me well.

Even though everyone noticed my dad when he walked into the room, or roared one of his trans ams down Gosford, won numerous awards in the Marine Corps, raised three girls (bless him) and a son and still worked out at the gym 3 times a week at 63 till he couldn't lift weights from the cancer... he was a modest man...so I know he wouldn't want me sitting at my computer with tears running down my cheeks talking about him.  No... I should be dishing out bad puns and laughing, that's what he loved to do.

I love you Dad, I miss you so much.