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.

Deja F You

Every time I have sat down to write this, to clear my head of all of this, I suddenly lose my words.  I have a lot to say, but I’m not entirely sure how to say it all.

My Dad has been in the hospital for two weeks today; today being what would have been my parents’ 61^st wedding anniversary.  He has had a toe amputated, his foot debrided twice, and one surgery to perform angioplasty on the arteries in his leg.  He was doing well, they were planning on discharging him to an inpatient rehab facility tomorrow – Friday.  I was manically trying to help the social worker find a suitable facility that had inpatient dialysis; without that, we would have to pay out over $300/week in transportation fees to get him to dialysis.  I was also working on trying to get together some transportation options for when he got home. But that all came to a screeching halt yesterday when, after the second debridement surgery, the doctor said that the area didn’t bleed as much as she thought it would and she called his vascular surgeon. I called that surgeon who said my Dad’s arteries are calcified.  He will reassess him today and most likely go back into his leg, this time through his ankle, to try and open up the circulation more.  My Dad also has what’s called skin break-down, which basically is damaged skin which would open up and turn into an ulcer if it is not treated and improves.  So – if the circulation doesn’t improve, if the skin breakdown doesn’t improve or gets worse, he could lose his lower leg.  Hearing those words were worse than what I imagine an actual kick to the stomach would be like; I’ve never been kicked in the stomach, except from the inside out (and man that kid was a strong kicker) but I can imagine that it sucks as much as that did.  I had heard that he might lose his foot, but that was prior to the toe amputation and circulation surgery last week. As far as I was concerned, he was on a smooth ride out the hospital door and into rehab, which meant one step closer to home.

Suddenly, everything just stopped.  And since that call I have spent more time reading up about amputations in dialysis/diabetic patients than I care to mention.  I have seen pictures that no one should see – it is AMAZING what comes up in Google; certain things really should be left for medical professionals to view.  Once I avoided or at least averted my eyes to the graphic images, I read medical studies – I’m not sure how many – that all basically had the same message.  Amputation at his age, and with all of the medical conditions he has, will inevitably shorten his life-span to that of dandelion that’s been picked by my toddler.  If he were to survive surgery, he may not live more than 30 days after the procedure. If he were to make it past the 30 day mark, chances are he wouldn’t live another two years.  And what would those two years be like?  I’ve tried to envision it but it is not a pretty picture, no matter what I try to toss in there to make it a more manageable image. He is wheelchair bound because he can’t lift himself up to use crutches. He is depressed because his independence has been taken away.  He is alone, in a wheelchair. If he makes it out of the hospital, out of rehab, maybe he lives with us – we would have to buy a home in his area that is accessible to him. His sense of humor is gone; not that it’s in the best of shape now but he is able to still laugh and joke, which is a good sign.  I want him to be here long enough to make memories that will last the rest of my life-time and that of my daughter, but it is not often that the universe grants us what we want.  My Dad has been through so much in this life and for this to happen now, which will be the end of his life if this is the path we have to take, it is heart-breaking and makes me feel like I have been robbed of yet another parent. I watched my Mom slowly die and I feel like I will be forced to relive that with my Dad.  He has always been the stable one, the reliable one, the supportive one; he’s the one left that knows what we were all like as children, he’s the one left that remembers what it was like as we grew older and crazier. I realize that I am lucky he is still here; he should have died in 1999.  But regardless of how lucky I should be, today, I don’t feel very lucky at all.  I feel sad, shocked, scared, alone, exhausted, numb……but certainly not lucky.