Beeper in the clouds and a smile in my face

by Alfonsina Betancourt

Today it would have been my dad’s 75th birthday.  It kind of defeats the purpose to celebrate a milestone that it was never achieved, but January 5th will always be my dad’s day.

My dad, in a rare photo of him, with my sister

As I was remembering him today I thought of his insistence to help so many people. An altruist, he was one of those people that gave himself away to too many people.  One of those larger-than-life figures, I guess. Not only on my eyes. He truly treated each person as he or she was the most important and that happened with more than his family and friends. That happened with every patient he crossed paths with. To be honest, every patient ended up becoming his friend.  In fact one of the most surreal moments of my life happened at his funeral. So many people crying and saying he was their best friend and confidant. Hundreds, maybe even more than a thousand saying the same thing and there I stood realizing that my dad was a man who belonged to the world.

My parents

Since I could remember he carried a beeper with him and that thing would constantly be sending messages. He would answer them all, regardless of the time of day or where it hit in the calendar. He was always available. But in its intent to be everywhere, he ended up being nowhere. He did not showed to himself as he should, he missed moments, he only slept a few hours a day. He was always on a rush, sacrificing everything for others.

In my eyes, that made him human: how he struggled to do more than what he was physically capable of doing while being torn apart by his desire to help more and more people.  As a child I once was, I could see, however, there was a part of him that was supernatural. How else could I explain that even when he was making the impossible to show up, whenever he did, he showed up in full presence?

When I was born

When I was born

One of the things I admire more about my dad is that he paid attention. When you were talking to him - except a few times when he would fall asleep in his chair- he would listen, like really listen. As if what you were saying was more important than the rest of the world. I know that was not my biased appreciation of a little girl looking up at her dad; that was what all those hundreds of women scream between sobs at his funeral. “He always listened.” 

The most painful consequence of death is the silence that follows it.  It has been fifteen years of not hearing his voice, his laugh that I miss so dearly, his advise, his jokes. He had the quiet demeanor of who tries to stay behind the camera all the time, but everyone gravitated towards him anyways even if he wasn’t the loudest; everyone looked for his advise. I still do.  

From time to time he shows up in my dreams; whenever I asked him to send me a sign if I am in the right path, he does: a heart-shaped leaf, a random person saying what I needed to hear on the street.  I still find solace in the words he would say even if he would never say them again. I wish I could hug him and make jokes and see him get all proud to see the kind of women his granddaughters have become or how I tell his grandson maybe one day he would do Kung-fu as his Nonno did. I wish his beeper would still work on Heaven, but I am happy to say I enjoy our new kind of communication.  Thank you for listening when you were here and from your new home; you made me realize that what I had to say was important. Thank you for trying to show up all the time; I learned that there are people meant to impact bigger circles. Thank you for teaching me that we need better arguments, no louder voices. And thank you, especially for showing me that you were proud of me, not for being perfect because I am obviously not, but for always trying my best and staying true to who I am.  I am not sure if I became the woman you dreamt I would be, but I have no doubt that you are rejoicing in the fact that I became the woman I was always meant to be. 

Thanks, Papi, and I say it with a smile on my face as you taught me. Happy special day!

With my dad the day of my Civil Wedding.