Dad jokes about it now. "Bring "El Muerto" - The Dead One - a glass of water" he'll say. "El Muerto is feeling fine," he'll tell me when I call to see how he's feeling. Nobody finds it very funny, at least I don't.

I was there in the Emergency Room with him when he stopped breathing. When his eyes rolled back and his tongue pushed his dentures onto my trembling hand. I still have nightmares about it, complete with sound effects: the incessant beeeeeeep of the heart monitor, the harried chirping of sneakers on the ER floor, the rolling in of the crash cart, nurses hurriedly shuffling through drawers and ripping open packs of syringes, doctors barking orders. "Code Blue - Emergency Room. Code Blue - Emergency Room" blaring over and over and over through the loudspeakers.

When Dad doles out one of his "El Muerto" quips I just say "Dad!" and then he looks me in the eyes I just give him a Dude! Cut it out! face.

Then he smiles. "Bah!" he'll say. In Dad languages that means Relax! Dont be a wuss. "Don't worry," he says, still smiling. "I ang fain."

And he is "fain" now, or, at least, as fine as he's going to be given the circumstances and side effects from all the meds. As fine as he's gonna be knowing that he can't do some things he could so easily do before. As fine as he's going to be knowing that everyday things are just that much more difficult for him to do. Although, what bothers him the most about this is the fact that he just can't be that go-to guy he's always been for his family. What worries him is that on the off chance that something happens to Mom, he might not be able to be the Knight in Shining Armor he's always been for her.

Dad's always been one of the strongest men Ive ever seen. Blessed with awe inspiring brute strength. Up until a few years ago, the Old Man could still pick up mom, toss her over his shoulder while changing a flat tire and making himself a sandwich at the same time. Now, if Mom happens to slip and fall, dad can't lift her up. His recent illnesses have reduced him to something so alien to him, something unheard of in his entire life: helplessness.

Don't get me wrong, Dad still gets around pretty well. He can still drive, he can still go to the grocery store or pharmacy, he can still open jars for Mom and carry two gallons of water easliy in one hand. But for my Old Man, that just aint enough. Dad still wants to do it all. He wants to move furniture around when Mom plays interior designer. He wants to mow the lawn, weed whack, rake leaves.

Dad wants to do what he's done for his family his entire life: the heavy lifting.

And by heavy lifting I don't just mean moving heavy furniture around as if they were toys or changing a flat tire in a snap or using his great grandkids as curling weights. I'm talking about the real heavy lifting. The heavy lifting borne of sacrifice. Of responsibility and consequence. The heavy lifting of calling all the shots and letting those decisions rest squarely and firmly on his shoulders.

It was Dad's heavy lifting that kept this family fed and clothed and always with a roof over our heads. It was Dad's heavy lifting that kept this family alive during bombings in Cuba. It was his heavy lifting that brought us to exile and gave me, my sister and our progeny the greatest gift of all: freedom.

We're all heading to Dad's house today to celebrate Father's Day. And he will love being doted on and having his family all around at his beck and call. But, knowing my dad, somewhere deep down inside will be the memory of that night in the Emergency Room and the subsequent decline of health and his inability to lift the heavy objects - tangible or intangible - of his life.

And then I'll have to once again look him in the eyes and give him that Dude! Cut it out! face.

Because, after all, our lives and our futures are the fruit of his heavy lifting. And they will forever rest upon his broad shoulders.