My Two Dads, or, We Don't Need No Stinkin' Badges

My daughter is in Brownies, and it seems for every accomplishment she has with the troop, she gets another badge. We used to be pretty good about putting them on when she got them, but I can't remember recently doing it. I think it may have been farmed out for Grandma to do, or we've just been putting them off. There's probably a huge bag of them somewhere just waiting.

I found myself strangely thinking of these badges this past week, thinking of the badges we collect for things we have done and experienced. This week, I certainly have collected one for the Life Events: Death of a Parent Badge, Dad Version.

The problem with this though, is that I already collected that badge a year ago: my stepfather, Nick DeLuca, died of Liver Cancer on New Year's Eve. Just the month before on a whim, we took a ride together out through the country, where he showed me places he knew. It wasn't said, but there was a sense of bonding, an acceptance, a love that was present and poignant. A few weeks later after going to the hospital to get some pain checked out, he was sent home with an advanced stage of cancer. He already knew. He was ready. I took care of him in his last days of hospice care. I was lucky that I had off for the winter break. He was ready and he let go.

On Tuesday, February 12, 2008, a little after 10 p.m., my dad, Rick Selvin, let go of ravages of illness that has dogged him since last June. It was a strange illness, and knowing his past history, I thought it would be just one of his many attempts of knocking on Death's door and running away before he answered.
You see, like a Phoenix, the bird that rises up from it's own ashes, my Dad seemed to come back from the brink. Each time he reinvented himself, not always for the best, but always his own self. He was married three times, survived non-Hodgkins lymphoma, had beaten extreme obesity, had heart attacks and eventually had a heart transplant, and to top it all off, kidney failure. It seemed that no matter what happened to him, he always came back and never lost the humor that put it all into perspective.
When my dad received his heart, he said he asked G-d for just 10 years. This last September was the 10 years. Probably because of the anti-rejection immuno-suppressant medication he had to take, he got an infection that usually only AIDS patients get, and with that, the doctors couldn't find it. His condition rapidly deteriorated into a frail shadow of a man where the barest whisper was an exhausting effort.
In January, he left the hospital for a stint in a rehab facility, and I thought he would be on his way to gaining strength. Last week, that ended when they sent him back for what would be the last straw: liver failure. It was just too much for his body to handle, and with the liver gone, kidneys not working, feeding tube, pain medications, there was no other intervention.
When I saw him last week, I thought he looked better than the last time in December. His face was fuller and the look in his eyes was back. The eyes were the key to his soul and you could see it then. He was there. But his voice was still barely a whisper.
By this time I knew what the news meant: It was the liver. And I knew from past experience that nothing good can come from a broken liver. Once again hospice care was put into place, only this time, going home was not a viable option. He was indeed ready.

Funny word viable. Seems an ironic word to use.
But with my dad's sense of humor, I think he would appreciate it. Just like what he put into a profile that I found on the web: "As of this writing, to the best of my knowledge, I am still alive."

Well, this I have to say: Nick and Rick, my two dads, in my heart, you are still alive. Nick, I will always remember your strong compassionate guidance, the consistency I needed, the family trips, the bakery and the times you let me in behind the scenes of the business, and of course, your chair. Dad, I will always remember your sense of humor and the corny jokes that went with it, your mastery as a wordsmith, your talent as a musician that I always looked up to, your interest in science and generally anything interesting, and the ability to look back and realize that it is never too late to change and say you're sorry.

I love and miss you both.