January 1993 I was 7 months pregnant with my first child. I had just months before started to see my father again. I didn't see him very often when I was growing up, despite him living in the same town. That was his choice, I guess life got in the way and he just didn't have the time? I honestly don't know, I never did ask him, he was like a stranger to me. I had friends and acquaintances that knew him better than I did. Those few months were nice, actually seeing him and talking with him more times than I normally would have in a year's time.
It was too late though. He was dieing and he knew it. I didn't hear that news officially until that January. I was visiting him in the hospital after hearing he had lung cancer, I was told he had 6-9 months left. I remember thinking, well, at least he will be around to meet his first grandchild. What he didn't want to share, but my mother told me, was that he also had Cirrhosis of the liver. Years of abusing his body had taken it's toll. He was 43 years old.
Unfortunately, he didn't last long, passing away a week after my visit with him at the hospital. He never did get to meet his first grandchild. And, even knowing how young he was and the reasons why he died didn't stop me from continuing to drink (I did stop drinking for all of my pregnancies and while nursing however).
