"Dad's dead."

I had just gotten off the school bus. My mother, next-door neighbor, and younger brother were all in tears. This past Saturday marked the thirteenth anniversary of his passing, and the fact that I was able to still go to school was either a demonstration of resilience or a sign that things had become so rocky between me and the man.

To this day, the death of Alex Ivanoff is still controversial within my family, just like my great aunt's suicide when I was a toddler. My father's passing at the age of 45 changed my family for both the better and for the worst. For one thing, it made my paternal grandparents reassess the relationship they once had with my mother (which turned out to benefit all), from one of animosity and disownment to one of strength and care (my grandmother eventually adored my two younger half-brothers as if they were her own grandchildren, and even in her dying days always asked about them and prayed for them.

It brought me closer to my dad's family after a few years apart and lastly my dad's relatives came to the realization of some hard truths about the man they had considered a happy-go-lucky guy: he had never come to terms with some of his past afflictions, drank to mask his sorrows, and was haunted by so many things, some of those being poor judgement calls as a youth. His life was a lot like the musicians he idolized.

But nearly thirteen years after his passing, I look back at the fact that for almost half my life now, his absence has been very present. My father wasn't there to see me get tossed out of special needs classes (in a good way, of course), to see me transition to living in Northern New York, he never was able to meet my girlfriends, see me make something of my life, graduate college, learn to love the city he was born in and most importantly, never had the chance to meet my closest friends. But the saddest thing of all is that I never had the chance to pick his brain the way I should have.

The real Alex Ivanoff was one of the most complex characters I have ever met. Sadly, my memories of him are hazier than they should be, outside of trips to Montauk, reading to me at bedtime, or teaching me how to ski. He spent the last thirteen years of his life battling demons that I did not know the full extent of until way past his death. And to this day it eats at me that my father went to his grave knowing that I held resentment towards him because of the poor choices he made. My father was a lot like my stepfather: a man who would give you the shirt off of his back.

But as much as I mourn the loss of a great man that day, I also realize that it could have been far worse. My stepdad cheated death the day before (at about the same time my dad had his injury) when he was driving to work and a huge chunk of concrete hit the front of his car. My family spent much of 2004 as a one-vehicle household and by no means was it easy. The day my dad died my stepdad was not only ready to step up to the plate, he had been rehearsing for the role for years. In a fitting tribute to my dad it was my stepdad who found himself at the Ivanoff residence in Richmond Hill doing home repairs.

I don't want to say that the passing of my dad brought me and my stepdad closer together, but it by no means hasn't hurt either. Since 2004 he's the only father I've had and he's been a good one. I'm proud to be the son of two carpenters and am now driven to carry on a legacy.

Tonight I think I'll listen to Eric Clapton's "In My Father's Eyes"---a fitting song if you ask me.