In June of 1994 I was watching the NY Rangers on television when I received a call from my mother. She told me that my father was in the hospital and that he needed blood. I told her I'd be there the next day. We spoke for a while longer, but when I hung up the phone, I had a strange, ominous feeling that my father's days were numbered. The next day I went to the hospital, donated the blood and then saw him. His eyes were red from the medication but he was coherent. I vividly remember telling him about a woman I had recently met from Mexico and I could see that he was excited. He always admired Mexicans, especially because they were so religious. When I told him that after knowing this woman for only a few months, I had a strong feeling that she was the right one for me, his eyes grew larger and he gave me a huge grin, showing all his teeth. We spoke for a while longer then I gave him a hug, kiss and vowed to see him very soon. In fact, Father's Day was just around the corner and my family had planned to spend the day with him in the hospital.

The timing was perfect because Blanca had just come to New York and was on her way to Connecticut to study English that summer. So on Father's Day I brought her to Lenox Hill Hospital. I was a little nervous and very happy. We planned to surprise my father with a handful of gifts, but I immediately knew something was wrong when they did not have his room number at the front desk. Remembering his room number, I took Blanca with me in the elevator. However, outside his room there was an empty bed. Puzzled, we walked to the nurses' station and asked where he was. Without a shred of sympathy the woman behind the counter answered, "Oh, he passed away..." My heart sank and I was speechless. Just at that moment two of my sisters approached with more gifts in hand. They saw the reaction on my face and realized what had happened. My sister P began lashing out at the staff for their lack of communication while I stood there in deep thought, thinking about how the three strokes and ten years of tubes, wires and pain were finally over for my father. Later that afternoon I went to the morgue and saw his calm, peaceful body. It was cold. His eyes were closed. I leaned over and gave him one last kiss and then left. Lenox Hill Hospital: the place where he helped give me life was the place where he met his death. Blanca helped me through that very difficult time of my life. She still helps me on this subject because she has a father who lets me call him "Papa."

When I think of my father several images pass through my mind. Carrying me to bed when I fell asleep on the couch. Watching me play baseball while he was on his way from one job to another. At home he'd often stand in front of a Catholic calendar and have a shot of booze. He had dirty blond hair and blue eyes. His height and weight were average. He was anything but average.

After his first stroke in 1984, he needed a cane to walk. But that didn't stop him. We'd be walking and talking, he'd be giving me feedback on my ballet performances and right in the middle of a sentence he'd bend over and pick up a leaf on the ground. That was one of his trademarks.

After his second stroke in 1987 he needed to be in a wheelchair. I'd wheel him to 106th Street and Riverside Drive, to the home of Duke Ellington, his idol. Then we'd look at the Hudson River and he'd tell me about the ships and his time spent in the Marines. The few... the proud... Peter Francis Begley. I never knew anyone in my life who loved his family as much as Peet Begley. He was born in Ireland, an only child. I think the solitude gave him motivation to have nine children of his own. He always had one, two or three jobs--or was unemployed. He worked in the film industry, as an editor. Even though he never really made enough money to keep nine hungry children satisfied, he gave us something that is at times more important: his total devotion. He always managed to find time for us. He taught us the importance of having a close family. And boy did he love my mother! Whenever it was one of our birthdays, before the cake was even cut he'd always say, "and remember, it's your mother's birthday too."

When I left home at age 18, he sent me a nasty letter criticizing my decision. I later learned that he sent the same kind of letter to my other siblings when they left home. This was his way of telling us how much he loved us and wanted us home. Mark Twain once said that when he was 18, his father was the most ignorant man in the world. By the time he turned 25 he couldn't believe how much smarter his father had become.

Peter Francis Begley was born on January 14th, 1923. I always think of him all day long on January 14th. This year I've been fortunate enough to give a speech in his honor.

To read the lyrics of my song Father's Day, click here