I called my father “papa”, although it actually sounded like “buppu” or “bup.” In Taiwanese, that’s how papa was pronounced it, so we all called him “Bup.”
Growing up, Bup played with us, took us on vacations, danced with me (yes, that’s me dancing with Bup), and promoted the early study of mathematics. I know there are some friends of mine that after more than half a century, still remember how on my early birthdays, we all had to do math problems to win the prize! (I also remember crying at 10 years old because I couldn’t understand the Algebra he was trying to teach me until my mother rescued me.)
That was my father, the scientist and perfectionist. I know that he had a desire for each of us to have the best in life, and in his mind, spurred us on to “do better” by pointing out what we did wrong. Yes, some would have called it criticism, but I understood that everything he said was because he loved us. I always forgave him.
In fact, when he was 88 and mildly suffering from the onset of dementia, out of the blue, he apologized, in general and for nothing in particular. He said repeatedly across a couple of days, “I am sorry for anything I might have said, sorry for anything that might have been cruel, it’s in my nature to just say things, but I am sorry, I am very sorry.” He was too late, it was unnecessary because he had already been forgiven.
Bup enjoyed life, and I enjoyed watching him enjoy it, watching him telling stories and laughing.
That’s what I try to envision in my mind when my sadness at his passing overcomes me. That, and his patting my husband’s bald head with affection. (It always makes me smile.)