We didn't celebrate my Dad's last birthday with him, on the day. Mom, Claire and I were in Florida for the work conference that would turn out to be our first and last mother-daughters trip. Mom had felt quite a few pangs of guilt over leaving Dad for his birthday, but having given in to guilt more than enough in her life she reasoned that it was fair for us to take our trip and celebrate with Dad later. I'm so glad she did. I don't know how Dad really felt about it. I remember that he fell, and possibly went to the hospital, while we were on our trip, but there were so many trips to the hospital.
We celebrated with Dad later in the month. Mom and Dad both had appointments at Emory Winship on the Friday before Memorial Day, and Stanley and I drove up to spend the weekend. On Friday, Miss Susan took Stanley for the day so I could accompany Mom and Dad, and Claire met us later.
That was the day of Mom's miracle, the day the radiation oncologist kept us waiting because he couldn't believe the scans marked with her name were hers. Her brain tumors had shrunk so significantly that he had to go over them, tumor by tumor, to identify her brain by the dim constellation of faded tumors.
There I go, talking about Mom when I am trying to talk about Dad on his birthday. Dad later completed his own brain radiation. Claire and I are 2/2 for parents having whole brain radiation, and we don't need our own turn to condemn it as a family activity.
We celebrated Dad's birthday on Sunday morning with a trip to church, lunch at IHOP, and a trip to the movies with Claire and I. I think we saw X-Men: Days of Future Past. I've watched it a few times since then. He fell asleep halfway through.
I would love to go to the movies with my Dad again. In high school, I always preferred going to the movies with my Dad over most of my friends. He never made me sit through a stupid teen comedy, we watched science fiction, action, and Oscar winners. We split up seat-finding and concessions duties, and I kept guard over his snack until the previews were over.
When I go to the movies alone now I can still hear him turn to me during a particularly grim preview and mockingly ask, "We don't have to go see that, do we?"
Sitting alone at the movies is where I feel his presence the strongest, so every once in a while I take myself out to the movies with Dad. I don't always get snacks, but when I do I try to save them until after the preview. I don't know what he would have thought about Deadpool, but I'm pretty sure he would have enjoyed Ant Man and The Last Witch Hunter. The Force Awakens might have even brought him to tears, and he would have loved seeing his grandson see Star Wars on the big screen for the first time.
I've tried several times to go to IHOP again. Maybe this will be the year, I love breakfast, but over the years my palate has developed past chain iterations of brunch. I can make my own damn crepes and French toast, and I prefer wild boar sausage or scrapple to the rubbery pucks there. Even if I could get past the food, which is the point, what would I be there for? To cry into my syrupy pancakes, to force myself to enjoy the shitty junky mass-produced food my dad was so fond of?
I think of the clothes I took from his closet to Goodwill the day he died. I lifted the bunch of jackets from the trunk and hugged my arms around them until I mustered the courage to drop them into the donation bin. I kept one, and wearing it is like getting a hug back from him.
