In February 2001 I got a phone call from one of my dad's "chicks." He was Mr. AA, sober for years while I was growing up, and he always had a meeting to go to. I'd never heard about Joe before, which was a little unusual - my dad seriously cared about all the people he sponsored, and he was a talker.

Joe said my dad had called him because he couldn't find his car. Joe was worried he was drinking, but after seeing my dad he thought it could be worse -- my father, Mr. I Know Everything About Everything was acting confused.

So began the end of my father, Sam. He had lung cancer and emphysema. He wasn't getting enough oxygen to his brain, which was why he was acting crazy. It wasn't good. There wasn't a lot we could do. He'd been a heavy smoker since his teens. The most frightening thing was that he was going to die from the thing he dreaded the most. His close close friend had gone the same way, and my dad had witnessed it all. Scared him shitless, but he still couldn't quit.

I carry some serious guilt over this. I didn't recognize the symptoms of his illness early enough to make a difference. My father was always kind of crazy. He always went his own way. And I'd slowly separated from him - I went from being ultra close to keeping in touch once a month or so. So when he phoned me just to check in I didn't get that he was asking for help. At my brother's wedding, he wouldn't dance with me - he said it was hard on his breathing. I only though of myself then - I was angry and hurt - when was I going to get another moment like that? But I didn't hear that it was physical - I only heard that he didn't want to. I only heard that he'd rejected me.

Growing up it wasn't that way. I was most certainly daddy's girl. We shared all sorts of stuff - a love of films, art, music. We had the same sense of humor. He had a terrible temper, and he always had his AA cronies around, but he was the coolest dad. He was an artist, he was smarter than anyone I knew. He was always interested. He was a compassionate listener.

Some advice he wrote me while I was in college:

"... I'm glad that you're beginning to realize you're as good as anyone else. I know the feeling. Self-doubt is a rough cross to bear. (Wait til you realize that you're better in many ways than a lot of your peers.) I don't mean talent-wise. I mean ambition, stick-to-itness and the ability to cope. And yes, dear daughter, you have them all. Your trouble is you've put yourself down for so many years, its become a way of life. Well, end that CRAP now! You've got what it takes (and you always had.) Just put it to work for you. What you can't handle today, shelve for tomorrow..."

Reading this letter now I am a little pissed about the talent remark, but I wasn't then. I felt loved and valued. It didn't last though.

My parents divorced a year after this letter, and my dad kept the house. In order to make ends meet, he rented out the bedrooms - no place for me really. Still, I saw him alot. I listened to him alot. Gradually that changed. Gradually I made decisions different from his expectations. Gradually I grew up.

What really changed our relationship was my relationship with my grandmother - his mother. She was getting older and more dependent, and he just didn't deal with it. He couldn't deal with her, which left me to deal with her. I loved her very much, but managing aides and hospitals, and DNR orders are no picnic for anyone, much less a 25 yr old. I asked him for help, and he wouldn't. Couldn't? He had no problems dropping everything to help someone he was sponsoring. He'd chosen them over me more times than I could imagine. But he wouldn't help me with his own mother. It was a bad situation, and I blamed him for a lot of it.

I blamed him because I told her I would never put her in a home, and I eventually did. I had to (and I had to tell her) but oy, the guilt. I don't know if I'll ever feel right about that call.

Then my dad had a slip. He signed himself into the VA. Visiting him, he asked me to bring him some paints, to help pass the time. I got so angry, I felt so put out. How dare he ask me to help him. I kept it hidden - its not like he couldn't read me though - but I did what he asked. Later, after some shopping therapy I realized that my anger at his asking me for something masked a deeper anger. An anger I'd been carrying a long time.

Near the end of my grandmother's life I walked into her room and witnessed a bizarro fight between her and my dad . She's 96, in bed. He's 65, standing by her bed. They are screaming at the top of their lungs at each other over something that happened when he was a little boy. I had a teeny epiphany then, and realized that carrying anger around hurts me more than anyone else. I realized that I felt sadness that my dad was still angry at his mother, and I just didn't want to be angry with him anymore. It helped me talk to him at the end, make sure I said what I wanted to say and hear what he wanted to say.

At his funeral, many many many people came up to me and told me how much he'd helped them, and I felt blessed that my dad had been so wonderful to so many people. I'm sad that I spent many years being pissed off about that. At least we left it with nothing unsaid.

I carry him with me:

• When I think that procrastination is the worst thing ever
• When I scream out the name of a typeface during the credits
• When I am sarcastic
• When I see a stone garden or a bonsai tree
• When I listen to Sinatra
• When I stay up all night reading
• When I make a self-deprecating comment