In Memory of Benjamin Sergio Perez

Unbelievable as it seems, for the second time in just about as many months, I’m writing what amounts to an obituary for one of my parents. On August 20, my father, Benjamin Sergio Perez, somewhat unexpectedly passed away at the far-too-young age of 59—less than three months after his wife of 33 years, my mother, also shed this mortal coil.

He chose to be a great father to my brother Joshua and I when he could have just been an OK stepdad to two boys that were not his own. But even from the beginning, he always thought of us as his sons, just as sure as—or even more than—if we shared blood.

What we did share were a lot of good times. Adventures my family would otherwise not have had if my mother hadn’t divorced my depressive, occasionally abusive biological father at just the right time. Josh and I gained a dad who was quiet but funny, strong but tender, athletic and artistic. We went hiking in the mountains outside Las Vegas. We bought pasteles and juguetes on Olvera Street in Los Angeles. We spent summer days splashing around the pool at our apartment complex. I got to be the best man at my own parents’ wedding.

My father didn’t have much formal education, not quite finishing high school—something he planned to rectify, had he survived—but he was smart and resourceful. He had to be. He grew up in Mexico in a large family, and although he was one of the youngest among his siblings, he took on the responsibility of looking after them—his sisters in particular—when his father wasn’t around.

Dad was an innate salesman, comfortable talking to just about anyone (even through the challenge of English as a second language), a skill that would fuel careers working in retail sales, real estate, and later, as part of my mother’s interior design business. He spent most of those years in men’s formal wear and fine apparel, and his impeccable personal tastes in clothes reflected that. He never went a day without shaving if he could avoid it, always keeping a perfectly maintained mustache. And my mother, a former hairstylist, always kept his hair neat and trim. During one of his recent hospital stays, the only items he asked me to bring him were a hairbrush and his electric razor (and a baseball cap for when he said his hair was “looking like Einstein”).

In recent years, both of my parents became very active on social media, and sure, a lot of that time was spent leaving loving and supportive comments on my various public profiles. But especially since the 2016 election, my dad used his platforms to air his grievances with the current Presidential administration and his support of progressive causes. His Facebook profile in particular is full of brief but effective (and sometimes unintentionally hilarious) posts such as “The EPA doesn’t have to play by the rules because thanks to trump they have no rules to go by” and “You’re with the racist dictator or not! There’s nothing in between.” His Twitter bio reads “#Realtor  #guncontrol #cutatreeplantatree. #VoteblueforabetterAmerica,  Resister Happily married to my awesome wife, 2 amazing sons.”

When he wasn’t posting about planting trees and ousting Trump, he was posting about his three favorite things: my mother, food, and Philadelphia sports. He loved the Eagles, the Phillies, the Flyers, the Sixers, what have you, although he remained a steadfast Dodgers fan, considering them his hometown team (another thing we never got to do together but planned to, going to a game at Dodgers Stadium). He had a notoriously large appetite, and loved all sorts of food, in particular both the traditional Mexican cuisine he grew up with and the Jewish staples my mother introduced him to.

His love for my mom was entire. They were best friends, business partners, and inseparable lovers. They were literally always together, unless he was going to work—and even then, my mom would usually drive him there, as they had only one car (always leasing a brand-new Nissan every three years). They would both post photos of each other on their respective social media channels, always accompanied by loving sentiments.

That mutual love and interdependence made my dad’s declining health particularly hard on my mom, who wasn’t in the best shape herself—not that she’d have let anyone know. Both my parents were both wary of doctors, and didn’t always have either health coverage or adequate funds to get regular care even if they wanted to. My mother always downplayed her own physical maladies. She’d never quite tell me how she was feeling, and I’d only find out months or years later about recurring pains, numbness, dizziness, or what have you.

Same went for my dad. He was always strong, barrel-chested and full of life. In his twenties, he played in local baseball leagues. But after a diabetes diagnosis about five years ago—counter to most people affected with that condition—he started losing weight. There were mysterious digestion issues, strange hiccups and severe acid reflux, exacerbated by anxiety and stress. Sometimes he got so weak from his inability to eat that he’d barely be able to walk, or worse, black out. That put tremendous stress on my mother, who did everything she could to take care of my father, and may have eventually led to her own demise.

When she went into the hospital following a heart attack in May, in the middle of a pandemic, it left my father alone for the first time in years, overcome with worry and unable (or unwilling) to take care of himself. And when she died, so did a big piece of him. Losing his partner for the last three decades just broke him. I went out to Pennsylvania to take care of him and all the myriad things that need attending when a parent dies. And I tried to glue him back together, but the adhesive never set. Even though we made plans for his future, which included reuniting with his sisters and family in California, somewhere not that deep inside, it seemed like he couldn’t figure out how to move forward without my mother.

My dad and I made the trek across the country back to the West Coast, and although he was weak and often in pain, he was happy to be here. My wife, Sara, and I took him to one of our favorite taco shops on Pacific Coast Highway, and after picking at a carne asada taco, he just sat in the sun, watching the ocean, soaking in the salt air. He would excitedly ask to go to “The Taco,” as he affectionately referred to Del Taco. One day, I found a steam cleaner in our garage that he’d rescued from the community garbage bin—he was always restoring and reusing or reselling things like that. It was like he was his old self.

But, of course, he wasn’t his old self. Sara and I drove him upstate to the San Joaquin Valley, where he saw his sisters and their families for the first time in years. He planned to move in with one of my aunts and try to forge a new life there, once his health was better. He was sad to be away from me after us spending nearly every day together since my mom died, but he was happy to be surrounded by the family he unintentionally left behind all those years ago.

Maybe he knew he didn’t have long on this plane, and reconnecting with his family one last time was all part of his plan. Being near the ocean. Seeing Sara and our pups. Selling his house so it wasn’t a burden on anyone. Maybe all he wanted was to be with my mother again, somewhere on the other side. Maybe that’s why, in the end, his body just gave up. He wanted to be set free. I can only hope he’s happy again, eating nachos with my mom, watching a Dodgers game from heaven.