Great Scott

Ten years ago, my dad, Scott Tipton, had a heart attack. No one in my family was surprised. He never drank water, instead opting for Mountain Dew or Old Glory energy drinks. He didn’t exercise regularly, unless you count when he mopped the floors every weekend. I don’t think he ever took vitamins, or wore sunscreen, or even went to the doctor even when he had clearly broken a toe or otherwise had injured himself.

My dad and I at my wedding in June 2013. Photo by Melissa Ybarra

Since I am an adult with my own home and job, I wasn’t always at my parents' house, but it doesn’t seem like he adjusted his life much after they put a stent in his heart. My brother, who is a nurse practitioner in Houston, urged our dad to go back to the cardiologist—something he hadn’t done in the past decade. We figured it was only a matter of time, and we were right. On June 22, Dad had a second heart attack and died en route to the hospital.

I was on a cruise when this happened and had wonky phone reception. I got my grandma’s voice mail saying something really bad had happened, and that I should call her. But I couldn’t call her. Then my brother texted that Dad had died. We had paid for an excursion that day, so I immediately went from finding that out to a garden tour and high tea in Victoria, British Columbia.

Dad with Bo, Taz, and some other animals I don't remember the names of, circa 1987.

It was a really weird day.

I was never really close with my dad. I mean, I loved him, and we got along well, but I don’t know if he was really close with anyone. Many men could be described as taciturn, but that doesn’t quite capture Scott. While other people were conversing, you’d frequently look over and see him with his head leaning back, mouth agape, just kind of zoned out almost to the point of unconsciousness. He could be really funny when he was engaged—he just didn’t see the need to engage 99 percent of the time. Though he was never formally diagnosed, I’m pretty sure he was on the autism spectrum. And we come from a long line of mentally ill, repressed people, so there were probably a few reasons why he never bothered to share his thoughts or feelings with me. But the memory I keep coming back to is the one time I saw him cry.

Family portrait of the Tiptons when I was an only child, probably around 1991.

My dad loved music. It was one of the few things he would actually talk about. In fact, he took me to my first concert—Blink 182—when I was in seventh grade. One of his bucket list bands was AC/DC, so my husband and I pooled our meager resources (we were in college at the time) and bought him two terrible seats for Christmas 2008. I liked messing with Dad any time I could, so I bought a cheap chocolate assortment at Walgreens and removed all of the pieces he would like, put the tickets underneath the protective paper on the bottom layer, and wrapped it up. When he opened and realized all the milk chocolate had been eaten, he was very confused and irritated, but I told him to look underneath. When he saw the tickets, he instantly teared up. I told him how bad the seats were, and how he’d need to bring his binoculars to see anything.

“I don’t care,” he said, genuinely beaming. “I still get to see AC/DC live.”

My brother Lucas, Dad, and I summer 1995.

It hurts that my dad didn’t take care of himself like he should have. It hurts that I didn’t get to say goodbye. It hurts that my niece won’t get to make memories with him like we did. It hurts that my mom is now missing her husband of more than thirty-five years, and that my brother’s future kids won’t get to meet their grandpa Scott, and that I’ll never to play a joke on my dad again. But alongside that hurt is love, and that will always be with me.

Written By

Karlie Ybarra

Managing editor Karlie Ybarra loves to explore her home state—and meet many of its animal citizens—any chance she gets.