On August 22nd, 2006, the first day of fourth grade, I was picked up from my babysitter by my mom instead of my dad, which was unusual. It was on my babysitter’s front porch steps that my mom took me into her arms and told me that my dad was dead. He had kidney cancer, believed to be from the chemical Agent Orange, which he was exposed to when he served in Vietnam. I was only nine years old -- too young to truly comprehend what had happened and what this meant for my family’s future. Ten years later, at age nineteen, I have realized the impact of his death. I hope not many of you can relate to this, but I hope you take away something. If you can relate to any of these, just know that you are not alone.

I am constantly wondering if he would be proud of me. His sisters and close family friends are always telling me that he would be, which is comforting, but I would like to hear it from him. Of course, this is impossible. My dad was very conservative, outdoorsy, and level-headed. I am incredibly liberal, introverted, and a ball of anxiety. He loved country music, while I can’t stand it. He loved hunting, and but the thought of killing Bambi or Thumper upsets me greatly. We would be polar opposites, and I feel that he wouldn’t like me if he knew me today. Then again, if he had lived, I would probably be like him. These questions and possibilities will forever be swimming in my head.

I barely remember him. I remember his smell -- Old Spice cologne and Marlboro cigarettes -- and his three tier cough. I remember watching King of the Hill and The Simpsons with him. I remember his green Chevy pickup truck. And that’s about it. I can barely recall specific memories. I know what other people have told me, but I feel like I shouldn’t have to hear it from them. I am half of this guy, I should know him personally. I never will.

I regret my nine years with him. The first three years I had with him, I don’t remember a thing. The last three years I had with him, I spent in the basement playing kitchen with my friends. I was acting like a nine year old, which is completely understandable, but I can’t help but feel like I should’ve ditched my friends to watch TV with him. I should have gotten up early to go get donuts with him instead of turning away for more sleep. I should have eaten all of the pancake he cooked for me instead of just picking out the chocolate chips and eating them. I shouldn’t have been embarrassed by him at the school’s Daddy-Daughter dances. I wish I had hugged him before I went to school every day. I should have bought him one of those “Fill Out Memory” books on the off chance that he would actually have filled it out.

Every time we pull up to the family cemetery, my eyes are simultaneously pulled toward yet forced away from looking in the direction of his tombstone. My legs are carried there and I am filled with emotions. I want to cry, as most people would do at a cemetery. I want to smile at the fact that I am somewhat near him again. I want to punch the large oak tree that has grown nearby, wishing it would have lost its life instead of my Dad.

How different would my life be if he had lived? Would we have ended up moving like mom and I did? Would I have enjoyed him taking me on his hunting trips? Would I have the same friends I have now? Would I wear the same clothes I wear now? Would I would have been to the same concerts I’ve been to? Would I be on the same career path? These questions will never, ever, ever be answered. And that will forever cause a disturbance in my inner peace.

This is a friendly reminder that if you have your father, go give him a hug. Same to your mother, and your grandparents, even your pets. Not everyone has the luxury. Ask them about their lives. Document the little things, because they will be gone someday, and I don’t want anyone else to have to fight these demons.