It’s been a while since he died.
He is with me daily as I see him in my children, in my own interactions (when I’m at my best), in how I organize myself, in how I enjoy life, still.
A marker of time passing. I have now been alive for longer without my father (alive) than with him (alive).
He did not live to see me in medicine, as a mother, married, making my way.
As a feminist father, back in the day, he helped me know I could be who and what I wanted to be. He was a kind and patient person, who listened, who cared. Like everything you would want in a doctor, though he was not in medicine himself. Like everything you’d want in a father of a mother in medicine.
Did I tell him thank you? I can't remember. I hope so.