Hello, pumpkin.
One of the very few memories that I have about my father before his passing is that he always called me “Pumpkin”. It was his nickname for me because he loved well, pumpkins. He loved October, being around pumpkins that it always reminded him of me. Any time I would speak to him on rare occasions (when my mom wasn’t controlling him from seeing me), he would never call me by my name. He would say “hi, pumpkin.”. I would learn years later into my adulthood long after his passing that he adored me so much, that he was proud to have me, but this love would be short lived as he passed away in 1994 from a rare condition called “scurvy”, a vitamin deficiency.
My childlike mind didn’t understand what that meant back then, nor could I understand how this type of disease could end his life. I was roughly 11-12 years old; according to my mother, he was an alcoholic and this is what caused scurvy but I’m not sure if I truly believe that he was an alcoholic. I don’t believe there was an addiction, just frustration-drinking on occasion in order to deal with my mother and her ways. When you have a mother that is a pathological liar (that’s a whole different story), it’s hard to believe anything said but I will never really know.
I remember when he was in the hospital on his death bed and I wasn’t allowed to see him at the request of my father (I was told) who said that he didn’t want me to see him, see how sick as he was. Apparently his body deteriorated down to nothing but his bones and he knew his time was coming to an end. I wish that I would’ve been able to see him one last time, to take the last and very few memories of him with me through life, even if he was sick. However, my only memory that I did take away long after his passing was “pumpkin”.
After he passed, the only closure I got was his ashes placed into a plastic box with printed information of the deceased. That’s it. I would never know if he had any last words for me as he faded out. Time didn’t care, and neither did my mother.
Goodbye, pumpkin. Goodbye, dad.