There is a stack of cards in my mind, each imprinted with the kind of anniversary that few people celebrate. Nine years ago today, my dad died of cancer. I think the official cause of death listed on his death certificate is "organ failure." He died because the original type of cancer he was diagnosed with had infiltrated his marrow and there was no coming back from it. The official date on record is April 6, 2001. It actually happened the night of the fifth and I'll never forget the timbre of my brother's voice when he called to tell me I needed to come home.
I have been feeling a little more emotional in the week leading up to today. I thought it was a result of the hormone therapy that I started almost two weeks ago. Part of it might still be, but I realized yesterday that my tendency to tear up at the smallest provocation had more to do with missing my dad.
Growing up, Tom was my biggest supporter and number one fan. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't anything that I couldn't do if I wanted to; I only had to try. He had a wicked sharp sense of humor that tended to surprise people because he was so reserved and shy. My brother has grown up to be the very image of dad down to the funny little smirk we both seem to have inherited. John inherited our dad's laid back demeanor and easy charm, whereas I like to think I have the gift of his humor. I know I definitely inherited his reserve.
There are a thousand things I could write about Thomas Betts, but the only thing I will write today is that I miss him terribly.