Good evening world. I know its been a while since you’ve heard from me aside from the posting of short stories. I wish I could say that everything has been good, but that would be a bit of a lie. But I will say that everything has been better, so that’s what we call progress. Enough small talk though…

Those that know me well enough or have been following this blog know why today is not on my list of favorite dates. But for those that don’t know or don’t wanna read, today marks 11 years to the day that my father has been gone. And while the pain of his departure had begun to dull slightly over the last decade, this year it stings with a renewed vigor. Let me explain why (or Atlanta least try to).

Here I am, just shy of my 38th birthday by a little over 2 months. That in itself isn’t enough to have me on an emotional rollercoaster (shout out to Vivian Green) today. I’ve “celebrated” a decade’s worth of birthdays without my father’s presence. It’s the parallels I’m able to draw between his life and mine that knock me off kilter.

First of all, I’m now older than my father was when I was born. Doesn’t seem like a big deal right? Normally it wouldn’t be until I remind myself that at 37 (almost 38) I don’t have any children of my own. And that’s a knife that cuts on both sides. On the one hand, I think I can literally feel my biological clock ticking. That doesn’t mean I’m going to run out and have kids by the first broad that’ll let me shoot the club up. But at the same time, I feel that gnawing sensation. Like something is telling me that my time is running out. I’ve always said I knew I would be an old parent, but I didn’t want to be a super old parent. Some days, it feels like I won’t ever be a father. That bothers me on a level even I don’t full comprehend.

On the other hand, it saddens me deeply that if I do have kids one day, they’ll be deprived of meeting my dad and vice versa. Anybody that knew my dad (especially later in life) knew how much he loved children. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy plain grandpa to anyone’s toddler if they allowed him to. I honestly think he was looking forward to having grandkids of his own. I can’t help but feel as bough I failed I’m by not producing at least one before he left this mortal coil. I know what you’d gonna say. My father’s spirit will always live on, because I’ll tel my kids countless stories about the old man. That might be true, but its not the same as having him in the flesh.

Lastly (and most importantly), I was diagnosed with Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia earlier this year. What’s the significance of that, you ask? Well, my father received the same diagnosis in the summer of 2001. He lost his life in the fall of 2007. And while the logical side of my brain is spewing facts (I’m younger at my time of diagnosis than he was by 16 years, my doctors caught it in time to get me on a course of action that should allow me to live a long and healthy life, medicine has progressed over the last decade and a half, just because the diagnosis is the same that doesn’t mean the end result will be the same, etc) at me all day every day, the emotional side of me can’t help but feel a pinch of dread. Even if I do everything the doctors tell me to do, that’s no guarantee that I won’t lose my battle with cancer too. Now this isn’t the first time I’ve stared down my own mortality. Usually there’s something calming about looking at the fact that life is finite. It helps me to refocus on the things I want to achieve in this life. But now, for some reason, I’m paralyzed by fear. I think it has to do with the pedestal I place my father upon. In my eyes, he was the strongest man in the world, a real life superhero. If he couldn’t beat cancer, what chance do I have? I know that’s defeatist thinking and I have to strike it from my mind. But I just can’t. It’s usually among my first thoughts in the morning, and my last at night.