Thirty-three years ago today, my aunt and uncle made my sisters and me pancakes for breakfast. “But why???” I whined. “I want to hang out with my friends.” My aunt insisted. I reluctantly sat down to a nice Sunday breakfast…where she then told us my dad had died. Silence. Shock. Crying. And then my two favorites showed up: indifference and anger.

We had been living with my aunt and uncle in New Jersey for several months by then. My dad had terminal brain cancer. Months earlier, we were living in Kansas City with him. He started getting headaches. His personality changed. Then came the diagnosis. Brain cancer. He told us the operation was successful, that everything was going to be fine. The school year ended. That’s when he gathered his three girls together and told us the truth. They couldn’t remove the tumor, he was going to die, and we would be moving somewhere completely different without him. The biggest thing I remember is him crying and repeating, “I won’t be able to see my babies grow up.” To me, that was the moment my dad died.

We moved. Months passed. A few phone calls. One visit. And then a pancake breakfast. I don’t remember much from that day except my determination to not care. “I want to go see my friends,” I said at the breakfast table. I went. We hung out. I was “fine”. I went to school the next day while my sisters stayed home.

I remember one class in particular, I think it was health class? We had an assistant teacher and I had a bad attitude. I got into a laughing fit. I don’t remember why, but I remember not being able to stop. I could hardly breathe. I was disrupting the entire class. The assistant teacher was confused and frustrated. I put my head down on my desk, trying to get it under control. Without warning, the laughter turned into uncontrollable sobbing.

I kept my head buried in my arms, trying to hide it. I panicked. What the hell just happened? I couldn’t let anyone see what was going on, so I got up, head in my hands, and ran out of the room. The poor teacher followed me into the hallway, where I stood facing the wall, hiding my face, sobbing. He had no idea what was going on, and frankly neither did I.

My regular teacher came running out from across the hall. She wrapped me in her arms. “I know, honey. It’s okay. You poor thing. It’s okay.” I remember her compassion. I cried harder. What a release! I later found out that all my teachers had been told about my dad, except for the poor assistant teacher, of course.

It still amazes me how similar hysterical laughter and sobbing are. Both are such a huge release. The switch from laughing to crying was instantaneous. It was wild. I guess my teenage determination to not care didn’t win out in the end. That was 33 years ago.

I have this painting of my dad, it hangs in my house. I walk by him multiple times a day. Of all the paintings I’ve ever done, this remains one of the most powerful. It brought a little of him back to me. I feel his presence every time I look at it. I feel like he’s here, watching me. It’s a huge gift I gave myself by painting it.

I don’t know what you’re supposed to say on an anniversary like this. So I’ll just say this:

Number one, hysterical laughter and sobbing are one and the same.

Number two, I’m so grateful I painted this portrait of my dad. It feels alive. Maybe he’s able to see me grow up after all. I feel his presence every time I look at it.

And number three, I love you, Dad. ❤️