Through it all, he peristed in smoking, to the point where my mother caught him sneaking smokes in the rehab facility he was at for months after his stroke. When he died twenty years later, it was of cancer of the brain, which had metasticized from his lungs. I guess you can only duck the bullet so many times.

Most of what I know about my father as a person I learned after his death. While he was alive, he never told me much of anything. I never asked, either. No need to assign blame. There's plenty for everyone.

My father was always disappointed that I didn't choose a profession in one of the hard sciences. I always felt that I let him down when I instead went into paralegal work after college. He died two years before I returned to school to begin earning the credits that would gain me admission to vet school. I'd like to think he'd be proud, knowing that I got the vet degree.

I don't think my father died a happy man. I also don't think I could have done anything about that. It leaves a aura of sadness about his death that twelve years has not shaken off.