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Wow, what to say here... My dad, the man who raised me after my real father abandoned my mother before I was born, was so great to me. He taught me how to take care of my own car, the appreciation of music, how to fish, and how to always love no matter what.
He was married to my mother for almost 16 years when he passed away.
The man I remember was a hard worker, loving, and let me get away with a lot as a kid. He had been in WWII, in the Army. He faught in Normandy, though little of it I know. I often regret never talking to him about that period of his life.
He grew up in Brooklyn, NY. His family consisted of lots of brothers and sisters, but I have since lost contact with them. There was so much I never bothered to ask him. I knew only one of his brothers and that we went to anothers funeral when I was small.
My stepdad, the only father that I ever knew, got sick in 1990. He had been in and out of doctor's for a while. One day, we noticed that a growth on his neck was growing, after having been told it was just a bite or alergic reaction. The growth went from the size of an ant bite to the size of a grape in a matter of days. When they finally ran tests, they found that he had cancer.
This sent my world into a tailspin. In the beginning of my senior year of high school, I was missing days each week to take my dad to his appointments. He was rushed into getting chemo and radiation therapy at the same time. This aggressive treatment was very hard on him and on me. My dad eventually stopped wanting to go. We had someone come to give him medicines at home, and he was put on a liquid diet.
I grew impatient with him and did not understand at that time just what he must've felt. I didn't know why he didn't fight or do anything other than lay on the couch. I wanted my dad to fight and be well and for it to all go away.
One time, I remember yelling at him for not going and doing something himself, if he had the ability to walk to have me to do it. He got frustrated and went to do what he had asked me after that.
I don't know what to say about all of it. It's been many years since I really sat down to think about all of it. I put it out of my mind, or tried to. I know that on that day I was in a haze and couldn't motivate myself to do more than yell and scream and lock myself in my own head.
My dad, John F. Smith, died in October 1991 from an unknown type of cancer. It spread from his stomach area up to his neck in a matter of months. He died at home, the way that he wished.
To this day, I have never been back to visit his grave. I'm afraid to. I left Florida, where I grew up, a few months after all this. I had dropped out of school and took to getting as far away from that as I could. I am back in Florida, but still haven't gone there. It is hard to face those demons and let go.
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