Remembering Alex Ivanoff

When it comes to my dad, I remember the bad with the good. And today, on the tenth anniversary of his death, I remember all too well. I remember being told in the kitchen of the Lakespring Drive house with everyone in shock telling me and me being in disbelief, my brother inconsolable. My life has never been the same. And that's how it is. A man I had such a love/hate relationship with was gone.

I VAGUELY remember when I had a meltdown in the first grade and I not only had to be picked up from school by my dad but was suspended from school. If there was a Guinness book of records for most times a student was suspended from school, I would rank high on the list. And he took his hand and gently pinned my head to the wall and gave me a good verbal lashing. I feared getting in trouble at school because my dad would unleash fury on me, or at least that's how it felt.

But we always tended to butt heads, regardless of the occasion. But I was a much younger me, and I didn't know better. I had an irrational fear of my first grade teacher because she was so young. And I found my dad's lifestyle uncomfortable, and if you don't know what I'm talking about, either ask me or let it just it be a mystery for you. For a six year old, I was pretty conservative.

On the other hand, I wanted to see another before I turned 10. French Canada counted. So a few months before my tenth birthday, my dad, brother and I made a beeline for Montreal. We checked of the Canadian Railway Museum, better known as Exporail. A really neat place, and I wish I still had pictures. Maybe Nicky has some.

One of the disappointments that will always linger with me is how much of my life he missed. He never got to see me leave the world of self-contained special ed classes. He never got to see me wear braces, go to school dances, learn to drive, graduate high school, (to some degree, not completely) be a normal teenager, go on my first date, my first kiss, my first girlfriend, my first serious relationship. But he was right on the money about being unhappy with my diagnoses. What bothers me is why he didn't pursue to issue further. In 2001, a psychologist working for BOCES gave me a non-clinical diagnosis of PDD-NOS. The tragedy is that my dad never pursued the diagnosis. If I can dig up some of his old schoolwork from when he went back to college in '99-02 timeframe, I'll add that to the blog.

Dad, me, Nicky and the rest of your friends and family miss the heck out of you.  

*This blog post will probably be updated as I see fit.