Memorial to My Superman

I don’t know what I want to say or how I want to say it, there’s so many things over the past few years I wished I could say but never had the courage to. At least not back then-- I have some courage now, just a little. Though I’m a bit late with my letter. So late that you’ll never get to read it.

Life can be very cruel that way. Here one day and gone the next.

Much like your life’s story—or rather ending.

It was so abrupt when it happened yet inevitable all the same.

I was so scared to come to terms with it, so much I wanted to deny what was happening right in front of me and wish the circumstances that plagued us all away. You know I’ve never been the type to get real emotional. I was the girl who rarely cried.

But you probably knew that about me, you’ve always known me best even when I had the reputation as the quiet kid, squared away in a corner afraid to face the world. You could always see me for who I really was, who I could become and had such high hopes and expectations for the timid little girl. You saw worth when I thought I had NONE.

And now I’ll never be able to tell you straight to your face how much that meant to hear— words of encouragement to fill a heart starved of courage. I’ve been battling my own inner monsters. My own illnesses of my mind. While yours was more literal.

Brain tumors and lung cancers truly are monsters of their own.

Growing up, I’d always hear you compare yourself to Superman because you loved that DC hero the most, so much you started to identify with him. The shirts with the Superman logo directly on the chest were your favorite to wear, a symbol of a man of steel. And now I realize why. Because to me, you were my Superman. You were the strongest man I knew in my life, you loved to help anyone that needed it, gave great practical advice, you had a love for life and lived for a good laugh. You were the guy that pushed people to become their best selves, even though your style was more tough love than anything else. I knew you meant well.

Dads are truly the closest thing we’ll ever have to a real life Superman. I know this--because I had you.

You used to be in the Army for a few years, your goal was not only to serve your country but to serve your family. To build a brighter future so you could fund your dreams of going to college, being one of the few to graduate in your immediate family. You were an intelligent man, had a passion for the sciences and fixing computers was your hobby. You wanted to become a doctor one day though you realized how grueling a doctor’s schedule could be and how financially heavy the pursuit of that dream could be. As well as how a doctor’s life could leave no room for spending time with family.

Because that’s how much you cared about everyone around you.

You didn’t want to be too far away out of reach.

You wanted to be in a place where if anyone needed you, you’d be the first to put on your cape and answer the call, as if someone shined the bat signal for your arrival.

Like how you first came into my life when I was two years old with my single mother living in Alaska. My own father by blood abandoned us before I was even born and then later on had 3 other daughters with different women years after. Calling you a stepdad would be dreadfully unfair to your role in my life. For all intents and purposes--you were MY FATHER. The Dad that stepped up in my life. The man that took one look at two-year-old me and decided to stick around and raise me. To love me like I was your own. And I will forever be grateful for that.

You met my mother and married her, though the relationship lasted a few years and there were a lot of ups and downs, with a messy divorce at the end. You still kept in touch with my mother, as a friend, and made sure to stick around in not only my life but the lives of my little brothers as well. Seriously. You don’t know how thankful I am that you didn’t decide to abandon us when things got difficult—you were a soldier through and through.

One of the happiest days I remember is when you bought me my first drawing tablet so I could pursue my painting hobby, and my developing dream to be an illustrator. Because you simply believed in my ability to create. You saw me tirelessly draw and thought one day, that I’ll be recognized for it. Even on the days I wanted to give up on my dream, when I wanted to throw all my sketchbooks in the garbage, you reminded me that I still had what it took. That my hard work would pay off one day—that I just needed to put myself out there more.

Of course I didn’t believe what you said at the time, mainly due to my own insecurities. But still—I appreciate that you were one of the few that saw a potential in me that needed to be cultivated. Not discouraged.

I loved you for that dad.

We had our ups and downs over the years because sometimes we didn’t see eye to eye on certain topics. Sometimes I thought your tough love style was unfair at times, since that was your main approach to raising me. I used to think you secretly hated me and that’s why you always focused on me and what I wanted to do with my future. Always pressuring me to give my best. Not being too thrilled when you thought I was slacking off.

I wanted to scream at you to leave me alone and let me figure myself out—because honestly I didn’t know where I was heading.

But you were the type of person to always have a plan, a direction you wanted to move in life.

I admired you for that quality.

Our lives weren’t perfect but Perfect doesn’t exist. And that was the beauty of it, the twists and turns.

That’s why I’ll never get over the fact that you decided to tell me that you had been diagnosed with Cancer a few months after you found out.

You tried to play it off like it was no big deal, that it was something benign. Beneath all your jokes and nonchalant attitude, you hid your worry the best you could. You hid it so well I didn’t notice how awful it was until it was too late.

It wasn’t until my 26th birthday in August did I realize just how close death was to you.

The final birthday gift you gave to me was like an omen. Foreshadowing what the outcome would be for our future. A blanket—but not just any blanket, it had words on it that I’ll forever cherish and never forget. It said “To my daughter, never feel that you are alone. No matter how near or far apart. I am always right there in your heart. Whenever you feel overwhelmed remember whose daughter you are.”

I broke down and cried after I talked to you over the phone—how much I loved the gifts you sent to me via mail. But I didn’t tell you how terrified I was because I knew what it meant. I knew what was coming afterward—because a month after my birthday, you had messaged me again because you were experiencing complications and admitted yourself into the Hospital. That would be our last conversation, and the final time I'd get to see your face.

On September 25th 2021—you passed away in the hospital.

To make matters worse, I was down in Texas with my mother, you were in Maryland and I didn’t have the funds to make it to your funeral. I had actually started a new job around the time of your death—so I didn’t get to properly grieve you since I needed the income at the time. I wasn’t able to watch your funeral service on Zoom with the rest of our family.

I felt like such a bad daughter for not being there to send you off into the afterlife.

I felt a lot of things when you died.

Sorrow.

Betrayal.

Regret.

Even Anger.

I felt all of these emotions because it wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair—and especially death. You were only 45 years old.

Because before you died, you even remarried and had another child—another little baby girl. One that will never be able to know her father like I did—like my brothers did. That she’ll be the only one to have never have met you, her only reference she’ll have are the pictures, stories, and memories left behind detailing the type of guy you were. How amazing you were. How funny you were.

I wanted to be mad at you for that, but I knew that wouldn’t be right. It wasn’t your fault, you didn’t ask to have cancer and depart the world so soon. So I bottled everything up, until I couldn’t. But you knew I was never an emotional person—but stoic people like me have our breaking points.

So I channeled everything I wanted to say in a letter. To say Sorry for not telling you how much I appreciated everything you did for.

How much you meant to me. How I’ll never forget you.

And that I’ll ALWAYS love you.

Because you’re my Superman Dad. You may have not been a guy that could fly and lift airplanes with one hand. Or even shoot lasers out of your eyes—but you were still the coolest and strongest guy I knew.

Rest in Peace.

Sincerely, your Daughter Jhalia