One of my first memories of my dad is of me hanging off his bicept when I was about six-ish. He would crouch down and crook his arm like he was showing off his muscle to my mom. Then I'd grab on with both hands and start trying to pull myself into a chin-up of sorts, as my feet left the ground. Back then I called him The Incredible Hulk. He was the biggest, strongest person in the world to me. My super hero; and in many ways he still is.
My dad isn't The Incredible Hulk any more. In fact he's moved in with my other half and I, and is very weak after being in the hospital for over a week with heart problems that most likely stem from the lupus in his arm; which they are testing for cancer. I've never seen him so scared. While in the hospital last week, he asked me to write his life story. He said that I was the only person he knew that could put it all together.
"There is alot of ugly in this story," He said to me. "And I could get killed over some of the things you'll hear, but I trust you to make the right decisions."
I know my dad hasn't had the shiniest past, and most people would have walked away long ago. But I want to help him tell his story, ugliness and all, because behind the tarnish and the wear, lies the heart of a superhero; my Incredible Hulk; who let me swing from his arm when I was six.