I don’t really want to write this. I’m not the kind of person who writes sad stories on the Internet for everybody to read. I’m not really the kind of person who emotes. I didn’t even want to look at this memorial at first. Months ago, I grudgingly accepted my invitation to muchloved.com, and closed the browser window again as quickly as I could. I didn’t read these stories for the first time until two days ago (and I was crying by the third or fourth one. Don’t tell). And now I’m writing one myself. Partly because my mom made me, but mostly to pay respects, even though he can’t really appreciate that anymore so there’s not much point. It was and still is so tempting, for me and everybody, to put my dad on a pedestal like he was the latest and greatest in human evolution. Kind of like Professor X (see footnote), but younger and better-looking and also pretty good at soccer. Sometimes when I was little he would stay home from work with the flu, and I would think he was just pretending. My dad, sick? Impossible. He was a superhero. Nothing hurts a superhero. And I wanted to be a superhero too. When he made breakfast on Sunday mornings, I pestered him to teach me how to cook, although I was barely strong enough to hold the pan. When he raved about Bill Bryson, I borrowed a large-print copy of A Short History of Nearly Everything heavier than I was and finished it. When he was funny, I copied his wry sense of humor. But by far the most imitable, the most admirable aspect of his character was his attitude towards suffering. Got a problem? Fix it. That’s all. Put your feelings aside. Do what you need to do to make things right. Superheroes fix things, that's all there is to it. Failed an exam? So forget your frustration. Study. An airline giving you grief? So control your temper, call, and politely complain. Do you have a type of cancer nearly unheard of in the West, and also only a few months to live? So calm down and find a solution. Move to China and get surgery. Again and again. And again. Until it’s four years later and doctors look at you in surprise and say “You’re still around?” You will feel pain, so be sure to bottle it up inside. Don’t lean on anybody. Do not, whatever you do, show weakness. Even if you have to withdraw from the public sphere, the people must know that they still have their superhero. Like Professor X, you have a bunch of kids, and they come first. If you don't use your incredible mutant mental powers to hide how much you're suffering, they'll worry. He was selfless to a fault. He was also the most rational and intelligent person I've ever met. He was the best, the bravest, and the most natural leader. The massive turnout at his funeral and outpouring of support after his death proved that in life, he had been one of the most inspirational people in the city. Did your dad die? So don’t wallow. Go to school the next day. Strive to be the kind of egg beating, Bill Bryson reading, witticism coining person he would be proud of. Even now, especially now, he is and always will be more than human, an inspiration to everybody who ever met him. Footnote by mom, from Wikipedia on Professor X: "Professor Charles Francis Xavier (also known as Professor X) is a fictional character, a superhero who appears in comic books published by Marvel Comics. He is known as the leader and founder of the X-Men. Throughout most of his comic book history, Xavier is paraplegic, although his body houses one of the world's most powerful mutant minds. As a high-level telepath, Xavier can read, control, and influence human minds. A scientific genius, he is also a leading authority on genetics, mutation, and psionic powers."