I recently told someone that I had no regrets in life. I attributed it to the fact that I always took on opportunities and challenges as they came to me, thanks in large part to my dad’s advice.
“Life goes so fast,” he would always tell me. “Never waste time.”
I didn’t fully comprehend the significance of those words as a kid, but as an adult, I see them as a gift branded into my mind. Those few words have helped me make choices toward living life to its fullest.
But shortly after I made the comment, I realized I did have one regret — and it’s a big one.
You see, for years I interviewed scores of people, age 60 and up, for my blog called Wiser With Age. I felt older Americans in the U.S. were not as revered as in other countries, and in fact, I felt they were almost forgotten and discarded. So I went on a mission to try to prove how impressive, and worthy of attention, they were by interviewing one person aged 60 or over every week. I interviewed fascinating individuals — bestselling authors, a Sioux chief and a champion body builder in her 70s, among many others.
Yet I never interviewed the person closest and dearest to me, which was my father.
Fabián Puga immigrated to Queens, New York, in 1973 from Quito, Ecuador. He was 22 and a flight attendant for Iberia Airlines when he decided to visit his father, who was living and working at the time in New York City. My dad told me he fell in love with the U.S. at first sight. He moved to New York, quickly learned English, and later became a proud American citizen.
He never completed college, but he fell into a job that he loved. He became a color matcher for a wallpaper company in Brooklyn, where he eventually became manager and worked there for many years. He was extremely punctual, and I remember he never, ever called in sick.
It was his dream for me to go to college and then later, to get my Master’s degree. I remember my graduation from Columbia Graduate School of Journalism as one of his proudest moments. I knew, because he had a huge smile that day — and because he thoughtfully wore a blue tie, the exact blue hue of the Columbia colors. He wasn’t often verbally expressive, but he had gestures like that and always, always, showed up.
The second time I saw him that proud was years later, when I told him I got a job offer at a national media outlet that required me to relocate to Miami. I went to his place after work to tell him the news. When I told him, he jumped off the sofa to hug me. This is a man who typically reacts very calmly, so that was a sweet surprise. I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be, because we never lived in different cities from each other before. The fact that he was that excited made the decision to go easy for me.
Little did we know, however, that the pandemic was about to start. The day we said goodbye at my just-emptied apartment in Queens was the same day that the restaurants shut down in NYC. He had wanted to have a farewell dinner for me with the family, but instead, he wore bright blue latex gloves and barely hugged me out of the fear of the lurking virus. I remember him telling me on the phone earlier that he was feeling stressed, which was very unlike him.
About an hour, or two later, my younger brother called anxiously that our father had collapsed on the floor. He had had a massive heart attack. When we finally got inside the hospital, which was a feat because of the new Covid measures, I ran to his side saying, “I’m here!” Seconds later, when my dad didn’t respond, I noticed he wasn’t in white hospital sheets but in a white body bag. Just his head was peeking out, and I nearly collapsed at the realization.
It couldn’t be. My rock, who was always there for us — and never sick — was gone at 68, just like that. All of a sudden, I felt myself floating without a foundation.
I’m so sorry I’d been reticent to ask him more specific questions about his life. I can’t help but wonder, did my father have any regrets? Did he always tell me that life goes so fast because there was something he wished he’d accomplished but hadn’t?
I’m sure I’m not the only one who wishes they’d ask a parent more questions.
I do know some things, however. He was an upstanding, and kind, family man who loved waving “hi” to his New York City neighbors as he came and went. Whenever he walked into a room, he exuded a peaceful warmth and positivity, even if he didn’t say anything.
I never once heard him say anything bad about anyone. He understood that everyone was different and just seemed to focus on the good in people. Everyone who knew him just loved him.
If I ever had a problem I needed help solving, my mom would often say, “Ask your father. He always knows the right thing to do.” And that was true: He always had incredible judgment and wisdom.
I do know he was the best man I knew, an exemplary father who sacrificed whatever his own desires were to provide for whatever we needed — even if it meant just being there. I never knew if he had other desires actually, because I never heard him complain. He always seemed fulfilled and happy to be with us, in the moment.
I also know he had a sense of adventure — after all he decided to move to a different country after a tourist trip. And I also know his life went too fast.
More importantly, I know he loved me, and my brothers, mightily, and he will always be loved and remembered by us. Happy Father’s Day, Papi.
