One Month

One month today, May 30^th, I lost my Dad.  One month ago I got a phone call that I wish had never come; I still find it hard to believe that a doctor asked me if I wanted them to continue ‘life saving measures’ on my father as I stood in my kitchen forty minutes away.  One month ago right now, I was on my way to the hospital to sit with him – which I don’t know if he knew I had done for the few days following that day.  I hope he knew I was there.  One month ago, I thought and said out loud to the universe “if he has to go, take him now and stop his suffering but I don’t want to lose him so if there is any way we can keep him for a while I would appreciate that” but it wasn’t meant to be, for whatever reason.  I know that things happen for a reason and, as a number of people have said, my Dad wasn’t happy anymore.  He had lost his wife, he was alone in the house for the first time in over 50 years, and then he lost his best friend and I think that was the last straw on top of a heap of health issues that kept landing him in the hospital and this final time, he was done.  He was just done and it didn’t matter that he had a granddaughter that loves him, that needed to see him again, that needed him to come over one last time to see her.  It didn’t matter that I wanted him here for a countless number of reasons; all of those reasons are about me and my daughter, not about what was apparently right for him.  I know that he is happy where he is and he’s okay – there’s no way my Dad went anywhere but to a very happy, wonderful place. He was a good man, treated everyone well, and he deserved nothing short of paradise after this life was over. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t still wish he was here; I wish it so very much.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think “man this sucks”.  Today is definitely a “man this sucks” day.

Remembering standing in that room, seeing what they had done and were doing to and with my Dad to try to keep him alive….it breaks my heart.  I wish he had crashed when we were there; at least we could have prevented some of what they had done and he could have just gone peacefully and quickly – which is what ended up happening in the end.  My Mom was different, she didn’t want to go.  He did.  He didn’t want to do this anymore and he left us when I guess, to him, was a good time.  He waited until we were both gone, I guess he wanted to spare us some sort of pain – yeah the phone call was worse than if we had been there, I think.  But still.  I hate that he died in that room alone, without us there.  My Dad never leaned on anyone for help; he hated that we took days off from work to take him to doctor appointments, or to come to the hospital to visit or to talk to doctors.  He didn’t want anyone to be inconvenienced (wonder where I get that from?).  So once we were gone, he let go and left us.  I wish he had held on, I wish that he felt he had something to hold on for – regardless of how much pain he was in, or how much work he would have had ahead of him to get better, I wish he had wanted to stay. But I know that he didn’t and a part of me will always wonder why we weren’t enough for him to want to hold on, to want to fight; I know that’s a question I will never be able to answer and I hope I can let go of it.  I hope to see him again one day, and I wait every day for a sign that he’s here and I hope to see that soon. I miss him.  I really, really just miss him.

And now, he's gone.

He’s just gone and I can feel it now.  I’m not sure what flipped the switch but now, as I sit at my desk reading the note that I got back from the Grand Knight of the Knights chapter in Somerset, I feel it.  He’s just gone now, and things will never really ever be the same again. It feels different than when it was my Mom; I guess because with my Dad, I know he’s in a better place and I know he is happy there.  I still don’t know what my mother is doing, where she is, if she’s happy – she was never really happy so who knows if she is now.  I miss his laugh the most, I think.  He had this great laugh and a great smile, too; it was hard to see the smile sometimes though because of the bushy goatee he wore (my mother hated that thing).  There are many things that I miss about him but I think that’s the thing I miss the most.  He was a funny guy, and not everyone knew that.  A lot of people saw him as being pretty serious and all business, because in many settings that how he was.  But with us, or with his friends, he had a great sense of humor and it always caught me off-guard because he was pretty reserved overall and when he came out with something totally off the cuff it would make you laugh until you cry.  I miss that.

I know that I am not alone in my grief and my sense of loss.  My Dad was a great guy and so many people are missing him now.  But for me, it’s different. He was always there, even when my Mom wasn’t – or she was too drunk to really be ‘there’ for anyone; I have far too many memories of being a child left alone to fix dinner, getting myself ready to walk to the school bus alone, watching her stumble around unable to balance herself even when she stood still.  Growing up in the chaos that was my house, he was my only constant.  I knew when he would be there and when he wouldn’t be, and I knew what I would get when he was there. Sure, back then I didn’t get much that wasn’t grumpy but still I knew what it was and it was okay for the most part.  As he got older and life changed, he changed and he wasn’t as grumpy anymore.  And then, he was again as he got sicker and older and he was alone.  And I understand that now, too.  But he was my constant, my supporter through the good and the oh so very bad.  When my mother said I was ruining my life by getting divorced and I stopped speaking to her, he was the one that told her to mind her own business and that I needed to be happy, even if that meant I got divorced.  He offered me a ridiculous amount of money to help me buy a house before my daughter was born; that money is still sitting in a bank account.  He never reinvested it, he was holding it until we were ready and then it would be mine to use.  He was always just there, a phone call away for anything I needed.  And now, he’s not.  And that is just weird. He has always been there. My phone won’t ring anymore with him asking how I am, how’s Emily doing, asking if I’m free for lunch, asking if we’re around this weekend so he can come up to see her.  It’s gone now and all that’s left are the memories, which I cherish and always will. 

I need a cookie. Or fifty of them....

I received two letters in the mail.  The first I actually got at work – it was sent to my office by the Knights of Columbus council in Somerset that my Dad had belonged to and was a charter member of.  My office had collected some money to donate to them in his name after he passed away and this letter was acknowledging that donation.  But it also said something else.   They created a fund in my Dad’s name, which will house any money that is donated to them in his name, and any distributions to charitable organizations will be done in his honor.  The first time I read it, my boss was sitting on the other side of my desk and I did my best to hide my tears.  24 hours later I am still in awe that they have done this for him and for his memory.  That was the first letter that made me cry; I cried every time I read it yesterday.

The second letter came to my home from the church in Somerset.  They refunded the money we paid for the organist and cantor; the pastor basically said they wouldn’t take our money.  The woman that wrote the letter, a nun, had been the principle at the school at the time that they built an expansion onto the building. My Dad was a part of that building committee and was involved in creating and approving the plans; the principal was also on that committee and she commented on the fond memories she had of him from that time.  She went on to say other things, wonderful things, that I couldn’t read because of the tears in my eyes.  I cried every time I tried to read it yesterday; I’ll try again when I get home today.

And here I sit today, revoking the words I wrote before those letters arrived.  Yesterday, I cried a lot. I even cried when Rob read the letters; he read them because I couldn’t tell him what they said.  As I tried to, I started to cry; and when he started to talk about how wonderful my Dad was and what an impact he made on his community, I cried more.  What makes me cry the most often are the words of others about my Dad.  I knew he meant a lot to people and that people appreciated him but to hear the words or to read them, or to see that a fund has been created in his name, just brings it home as being real.  I know that a lot of people are sad now that he is gone; I know that my sorrow is shared by more people that I probably even realize.  He was loved and appreciated so very much and now, he is missed just as much.  And that makes me sad, too.  To know that so many people miss him, so many people are sad now.  I know that he was sick and tired, and tired of being sick, and I am sure that it was just  his time – there was such a risk with the last surgery that this, I think, was the inevitable outcome.  He had been through so much over the past few years that his heart was just done and I think his soul was just done and he let go, he stopped fighting – which I know I will accept one day. But still.  I had wanted him around for at least another year so that I knew for sure my daughter would remember him and so he would know that she got into a good school and she was going to have a good, happy, successful life in a nice home. And even though, on that day as I left my house to go see him at the hospital, I said to the universe or to God “if he’s going to go, please just take him today and stop his suffering because this isn’t fair”, I still wasn’t ready for him to leave us just yet.  I had wanted him around for so much more and I know that a lot of other people feel the same way.  I laugh but it’s true; he’s turned into ‘the man, the myth, the legend’.  And I’m okay with that.  He was great, and he is missed.

Father's Day

I think everyone expected me to fall apart yesterday, but I didn’t.  Yes, it was Father’s Day.  It was the first one without my Dad, and it was just three weeks after he passed.  I think Saturday, the three week mark, was harder. We were in the car when 7:32 struck; that was the first time he coded three weeks ago.  And again at around 7:45 or 7:50, when I got the call.  That is harder. Father’s Day was, numbing.  I didn’t feel much of anything, which is kind of how I feel most days lately and I don’t know why.  I don’t know if this is my brain protecting me from the utter pain and sorrow I would be in if I was allowed to feel it; I don’t know if I just can’t feel any more than I already have – which I think may be the real deal.  Whenever I do think about it, the word that crosses my mind the most is just “f*ck”.  As it was the day that we walked into his room, well the day that I sprinted to his room from the elevator and that’s all I kept saying over and over.  That’s all I can keep saying.  Do I cry?  Of course I do. Every time I have to go to the house and see his car still sitting there, I’m reminded that he’s gone.  Every time I walk through the door, using my own key, I am very well aware of the fact that he is gone.  They both are.

Yesterday was not my worst day, and I am sure that I will have plenty that will be harder.  The day my daughter is accepted into school, the first day of school, the day we move into a house, or hell even looking at houses will be hard; I had planned on bringing him with us, have him look at the electrical and the plumbing and help to negotiate a price for it like he has for every car I’ve bought.  The day I have to put tires on my car, I will probably cry just because I always asked him what I should buy.  Stupid stuff that really, isn’t about him but I wanted him to be there for.  I knew he wouldn’t be there for my daughter’s high school graduation, but I had hoped he would be there for the first Grandparent’s Day at school – but he won’t be.  My brain is just saying “f*ck” and “ugh this sucks” over and over and over and I don’t feel much of anything at all.

My Dad was a great man.  As one of my friends said “he was one of the best Padres I ever knew”, and it’s true.  Sure he was tough, sure he was absent for reasons that I now understand.  He drove us to the mall more times than I can count; he saved me from the roadside more times than I can count, and at all hours of the day and night.  And when the chips fell, he was there.  When I needed him, he was there.  He picked up the phone and called me, he offered to bring me soup every single time I was sick, he offered to watch my daughter time and time again even when he didn’t have to, he was always just there to fall back to whenever I needed to. And now, it sucks that he’s gone and I just feel different.  Maybe that’s why  I’m not crying – it’s because I’m just not the same anymore; I don’t know how to feel, I don’t know how to cry because I just don’t feel the same way I did before he died.  It’s hard to cry when the feelings just aren’t there; the emptiness I feel this time around is bigger than I can ever put into words.

My World Without Him - Today

When someone asks how I am, I am finding that I give them a high-level peek into how I am but then I change the conversation to what has to get done now.  “Now there’s just so much to do” is what I find myself saying over and over again; there’s a house full of their things, there’s a car, there’s a will, there are bills to be paid.  I don’t happen to mention that almost anytime I think about him or I’m reminded of the fact that he’s gone, it takes every ounce of strength I have to not openly sob and fall onto the floor.

I just ran into my Executive Director, she’s basically the Head Cheese at my office, and she asked how I was.  She’s very compassionate and I know I could have been honest with her – I could have told her that he was my heart, he was my constant supporter and that I just feel like the world is wrong now that he’s gone. I could have told her that it all feels like a bad dream that won’t go away.  I could have told her that anytime my office door is closed, it’s because I’m crying.  But I didn’t. I stuck to the facts, said that it’s been hard, and went right to my stand-by statement about all that we have to do now.  Why did I do it?  Because I can’t be the girl that stood at the copy machine with the Executive Director and cried her eyes out.  I was the girl that went into that woman’s office about a year and a half ago and started crying when I had to tell her my Mom had kidney cancer and was going into the hospital.  I can’t be the girl that can’t seem to stop crying, even though deep down, I am her.  The other night I went to bed early because I didn’t feel well; turns out I didn’t feel well because I had bottled up all of the sadness from my day.  When I laid in bed and cried for a bit, I felt better; the pain in my stomach went away.  So I guess this time around, I get to experience the physical effects of grieving.  Last time, it was just the emotional.  Oh grief – how I loathe you and wow, you really really suck.  Thanks for making this even harder than it already was going to be.

Calendars Suck, Too

A month before my Dad passed away, we had lunch together for the last time, for my birthday.  He wanted to take me out for my birthday.  And it was on April 30; he passed on May 30.

I found it on my calendar as I was searching for dates to enter into a report and ever since I saw it, I’m just sad.  God I miss him so very much.  I don’t know how to describe it; it’s different from when it was my Mom.  My Mom was a shock, and she was sick with no hope of recovering so it was horrible and tragic and traumatizing and I held her hand as she died.  But my Dad, we thought he’d be okay.  We knew if he did the road home would be a long one but we were hopeful and at no point did anyone say “there’s nothing we can do” until it was over and they were asking if they should continue doing CPR.  I hate knowing that those lunches we shared over the past 16 months after my Mom will never happen again.  I won’t hear him say “hi Michele, this is Dad” on my voicemail again on a Thursday morning asking where I want to meet and when.  Ugh. I just HAD to find it today, a day that wasn’t all that great to begin with.  Thank you, universe.  The kick in the stomach was just what I needed today.

Death Sucks

A friend, granted not a very close friend anymore, lost her baby girl last week.  I don’t know what happened and I guess in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t matter.  Her 8 month old is gone, that’s what matters.  Gone are the good-night kisses and snuggles that I relish, gone are the smiles and baby giggles, gone is that baby girl.  THAT is something I don’t think I will ever understand – why a child has to die.  My Dad was old and sick, and I guess his time had come. I am a pretty strong believer that things happen for a reason. My Dad’s passing was probably because it was just his time, he had a hard life, was sick for a long time and held on as long as he could.  His wife, his best friend, the rest of his family were all waiting for him to show up on the other side to organize the party.  But the loss of this little baby has no justification in my book.  I am sure her family is standing strong; her mother is one strong woman. She raised her oldest daughter on her own and came from a tough life herself, I pray her for and for the strength that she has always had – for it to stay with her, not fail her, to grow ever stronger and bigger to support this new weight has will carry for the rest of her life.

My Dad will forever be missed by me.  And I have the memories of him to make me laugh eventually, for now they just make me cry.  I hope that they were able to gather up memories in the past 8 months with that baby that will last a life-time and will one day, bring them joy.  And who knows.  My Dad loved babies and babies loved my Dad, maybe he’ll keep an eye on her up there until her parents join her one day. 

One Week an Orphan

I’ve been trying to write this for a while now.  But now that I’m back at work it seems the right time to just do it.

My Dad died on May 30^th.  I got the call around 7:50 that he had coded.  His blood pressure dropped, he stopped breathing and coded.  They wanted to know if they should continue life saving measures.  How do you answer that on the phone, without your sibling, and while you’re at least 40 minutes away???

I got there in 25 minutes.  It may have been 23, I’m not sure. I met my sister there. 

When we got up to his room, after I yelled at a security guard in the ER, they had done CPR again after he crashed again. He was on a ventilator but they kept losing his pulse.  They lost it again as we stood there, and they started CPR but I asked them to stop.  We agreed that wasn’t what he would have wanted and they were working on him for so long that even if they were able to get him back, his brain wouldn’t be alive anymore.  It wouldn’t be my Dad.

He passed as soon as they took him off the ventilator.  We were not in the room but went in shortly after.

And now, as I joked with my sister as we sat in the room with our dead father, we are now orphans.  He had been in the hospital for a while and although we knew he may not get better, we kept hoping that he would use up another of those 9-lives and make it through it.  But this time, it wasn’t meant to be.  We sat there with him for a while, in disbelief.  All I could keep saying was “fuck” over and over. What else could I say?  I had this whole speech prepared to give him once I knew he could hear me and it was all about how he had to get better so he could see my daughter in gymnastics class, see her go off to private school next year, celebrate her next birthday.  But I never got to say it. He was out of it more than in the last few days and I never got to say it.  There’s a lot I didn’t get to say, including good-bye.

It’s kind of hard to believe that he’s gone.  We had thought for the longest time that he would go first and when he didn’t, there was that additional shock on top of the shock of losing my Mom so quickly and traumatically.  And now that it is him that’s gone, it’s odd.   I can feel that there is something wrong with the world now that he’s no longer in it.  It feels weird not being able to call him, check on him, tell him another funny Emily story.  Everything just doesn’t feel the same anymore and I don’t know that it ever will.

I can’t say how many times I heard the words “wonderful”, “giving”, “dependable”, “always there”, “great” and “we will miss him” followed by “greatly”, “so much” and “more than I can say”.  He was a wonderful man and hearing everyone from the recreation secretary at his retirement community to some of his closest friends say the same things over and over just confirm that I was lucky enough to be Angelo’s daughter.  He will always be the one that supported me the most, the one that just wanted me to be happy no matter what it meant.  He will always be the one that initially scared most of my friends but in the end, made them feel like one of his own.  I posted on Facebook that my world feels a little bit darker now, and I think that it will always be that way. He had a way of lighting up a room with his smile and always managed to break an uncomfortable silence with a great laugh.  And I will miss that.  I will miss being able to call him my Dad, because that was one of the biggest honors I will ever receive in this life.  He was a good man and he is very sorely missed.