I'm one of the lucky ones: I'm the product of an unbroken home.  My parents loved and supported each other and stayed married.  Although this isn't extraordinary, it is definitely unusual in this day and age.  My parents also loved and supported me.  They put up with me through my rebellious youth and my difficult high school years.  They encouraged my involvement in dogs and helped me grow in its competitive environment.

They even supported me (though it caused them great heartache) in my first marriage when I was only 18 years old.  They also helped me two years later when the marriage ended and I had an infant to care for alone.  Their arms were always open to me and they never berated me for the mistakes I made in life.

My parents' home was always my home.  I visited as often as I could.  I spent many holidays there.  My parents helped me raise my daughter Jennifer and watched her while I honeymooned with my second husband.  They helped celebrate the birth of Beth and Phillip.  They vacationed often with my daughters, so my children grew close to their grandparents.

In April 1993, my parents came to visit and see the sites in Washington.  They took the children to the museums and walked the city for days.  After the first couple of days, my dad began complaining of pains in his leg.  Upon his return home, his doctors found a tumor on his tibia.  When removed, the tumor proved to be a plasmacytoma.  Because this type of tumor is usually caused by another form of cancer, dad was put through a battery of tests.  The conclusion was that he had multiple myeloma, a rare form of bone marrow cancer.  No problem, I thought.  People get cancer all the time now and live.  He obviously just had to have surgery, then chemotherapy, and everything would be fine.

I can't explain my shock when I found out the truth.  I read as much as I could about multiple myeloma -- and the more I read the more frightened I became.  Multiple myeloma is fatal, and it is painful.  Treatments can be radical and not without their own risks.  Many MM patients die of complications from treatment.  My dad was not going to be fine; he was going to die.  And, it wasn't going to be easy for him.  It wasn't going to be easy for mom -- it wasn't going to be easy for anyone.

Dad lived 43 months after being diagnosed (the average is 30 months).  He bravely battled his disease for as long as he could.  He died peacefully at home surrounded by family, 6 days after his 66th birthday.  Just as dad taught me about living and loving, he taught me about dying.  I learned the value of hospice care and I will be forever grateful to his hospice nurse and case worker.  I am also eternally grateful to my mother for making dad's last few months pleasant and peaceful.  She made sure dad always had fresh flowers in his room, a caring touch to ease his pain, and a loving face to look into.

So, you see, I'm one of the lucky ones.  I had a wonderful father who loved me.  He was an admirable person, loved and respected by many.  He touched many people with his calm sense of justice, his remarkable sense of humor, and his joy of life.  He worked hard to make me into a good person, long after I left home.  His common sense always prevailed when advising me.  He had the incredible knack of making me feel good while telling me I was stupid, silly or just plain wrong.  

My dad never got to see this homepage.  By the time I put it up he was too ill to view the computer screen.  However, a lot of him is on these pages.  Dad helped shape me into the person I am and has flavored much of what I have done in my life.  Because of these things, I lovingly dedicate this homepage to him.

Goodbye Dad.  I love you and I thank you.