A College Dropout

YuBin Sol
9 November 2009
RD3

A College Dropout

My father was my hero. So when he died, I fell into what seemed like an abyss of depression. I couldn’t concentrate on my schoolwork, and I was only in my third semester of college. I dropped out, not even telling my professors my situation and plead my case for an “incomplete” to finish the semester out later. I didn’t care that I would fail all my classes; nothing seemed to matter. [THESIS] Seven years later, I finally came to realize that my life had no direction and I needed to worry about my future. [THESIS] And finishing school was my answer.

When I found out my father had cancer, it was during my second semester of college. I had known for a while that something was wrong with his health, but my mother kept it for a secret from me for as long as she could. I knew his hospital visits became more frequent and they weren’t just “routine checkups.” My mom called a family meeting one day in March with my sisters and me while my father was still at work. She gravely told us with tears in her eyes, daring to spill over, putting on her best brave face for us that our father had stomach cancer. Because he showed no symptoms until recently when he began to have stomach pains, his cancer was advanced, to Stage Four, and would not have much longer to live. The doctors said he didn’t even have a year left.

The power of the words “stomach cancer” changed my father. I knew it terrified him inside, to know that he was dying, his days were limited. But for the sake of his wife and children, he put a smile on every day, and continued his life as if it were normal. A few good things about his having cancer, he finally quit smoking after forty-two years of nicotine addiction. Since we lived at the end of Waikiki, he began to walk from our condo all the way up to Diamond Head in the mornings. My mother and sisters would accompany him occasionally.

But I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my father. I was daddy’s little girl. I needed him with me. I wanted him to walk me down the aisle when I get married. I wanted him to be there when I have kids. I wanted him to live a full life and retire and play golf every day. I wanted so many things for him, to experience things that I knew he would be missing out on in his life.

I was distraught, and didn’t know what to do, how to help. I didn’t know how to be around him without the thought of cancer on my mind. I started staying out late, past my father’s bedtime and would sneak back into the house. I abused alcohol to hide my agony. It was my temporary escape from reality. Everything seemed better when there was alcohol running through my blood. It didn’t matter what kind of liquor it was, as long as it got me drunk. I would convince my friends to be my drinking buddy at D&B’s. My visits were so frequent that all the bartenders knew me, and my favorite type of drink. I supported my alcoholic habit by working as many hours as I could at the doctor’s office. But at the end of my shifts, I felt there was nothing else that could take my mind off my father’s cancer. Some nights I wouldn’t even go home, crashing at a friend’s place because I would be too drunk to drive myself home.

My father began chemotherapy and soon was too weak to eat anything. His stomach couldn’t handle any solids. The doctors then inserted a feeding tube through his stomach. He turned gaunt, pale, and weak. It was as if he was a completely different person. I had no idea who this figure of skin and bones was. He was beyond recognizable. This depressed me even more and I tried to avoid him at all costs. I knew that I wasn’t strong enough to deal with his sickness. I felt like dying. I felt like I had no purpose in life. I didn’t care about anyone else.

His last days were spent at Kaiser Hospital. My mother, sisters and I were all there. Even though I was psychologically exhausted from my self-abuse, I sat there and stared at him, to watch his breathing, making sure he was still alive. Around eleven at night on the thirtieth of March 2002, he stopped breathing. I screamed. I panicked, and I sobbed. My mother was shaking his limp body. Her tears were uncontrollable. I felt sick. I don’t remember much that happened after that.

I drowned myself in as much liquor as my body could handle. No, I drank more than my body could handle. It began to reject the alcohol and I would vomit the entire contents of my stomach every day. When there was nothing left, I would throw up bile. When there was nothing left, I would dry heave until I was too exhausted to heave anymore. I went in to work hungover countless times. I would puke at work, in the trash can or in the water fountain because I couldn’t make it to a bathroom stall in time.

Those days were all a blur. I don’t remember much of the entire year after my father’s passing. I just worked and drank after my shift. I wasn’t stable. Every day was just the same, one after another. I knew I was being selfish, only thinking about myself, not caring what others thought. I shrugged my family off, when they would talk to me, concerned.

It was only a matter of time before I realized that no matter how much I drank, or how much I worked, nothing would bring my father back. I could finally see that my addiction to alcohol was not getting me anywhere, and I was wasting my life away. I would often go to my grandmother’s grave and sit there for an hour, thinking about my father and grandmother. Something about being there put me at ease.

I knew my father wanted me to make something of myself. I knew he didn’t want me to be an alcoholic. I knew he wanted to be proud of me. So I promised myself I quit drinking, get back into school and finish my degree. I regret having taken so long to come to my senses and do something worthwhile in my life. Even though it took me so long to realize I wasn’t going anywhere or doing anything worthwhile, I decided to take my life into my own hands and be someone who I know he would be proud of. After all, even though my father isn’t here anymore, I still am daddy’s little girl.