They Say It's Your Birthday...

Mr. S£im Citrus

Doryphore of
Staff member
Today is my biological father's birthday. We haven't always been the closest; hell, we're not particularly close, now. He and my mom got divorced before I turned three, my mom met my dad when I was five, and my father, by his own choice, has been a fleeting and sporadic presence in my life, ever since. For the longest time, I got his birthday mixed up with that of one of my younger sisters, that he had after he decided to start his second family, and be the dad for them that he wasn't for me and my sister. And then, when I was sixteen, my grandmother (my mom's mom) died on this day, which happened to also be my father's forty-first birthday and, well, let's just say that I've never forgotten which day was his birthday, again. We basically didn't speak to each other between then, and when my son was born.

My father comes from a big family: he is the seventh of eleven children, and has had four older sisters and two older brothers, as well as three younger sisters, and one younger brother. Five of his siblings (four older, one younger), as well as my paternal grandmother, have passed away: all six of them tested positive for pancreatic cancer. Three of them actually died of the cancer, and the only reason the other three didn't was because:

  1. My grandma died of other age-related factors, and
  2. The other two killed themselves, before the cancer could take them out.

Anyway, I said all of that to say two things: 1) **** cancer, and 2) get yourselves screened, people.

Happy 70th, dad.