I wrote this two weeks after my Dad died. I had planned on it taking about 40 minutes to read and for it to show exactly what I thought during those 40 minutes. I haven't touched it since I started it. I went to start working on it again today and it's just too hard. It's been a little over a year...I don't think I can work on it again. I guess I just wanted it out there somewhere.
Forty minutes of silence. At least that is how I remember it. There was no conversation spoken. Just the wind from the slit in my window, the buzzing from the radio turned down too low, and my quite inexorable sobs. Inside my head the noise was deafening. Would you like to see what I did during that forty minutes of silence?
“ Honey you have to get up. Lizzy? You have to get out of bed, grab Pandy. Come on.” Through blurry eyes I saw Mom. She was crying. “Come on Lizzy!” I pushed aside the covers and rubbed my eyes.
“Why? What’s going on?” I grabbed Pandy. He was my favorite stuffed animal.
“Daddy’s sick honey. Come on. We have to go to the hospital.” She grabbed my arm and led me to the car. It was pulled up in the yard and Dad was in the front seat. I held Pandy close and watched the stars in the sky as we drove. Dad had his window down and the cold October air was rushing in. I didn’t have time to grab my jacket.
“Dad? Can you roll your window up? It’s chilly back here.” I smiled at him in the passenger side mirror. I couldn’t believe he was hot.
“Sweetie, . . . I can’t. . . breath.” Each word echoed with pain. I realized he was holding his chest.
“He’s just having a hard time breathing, honey. The air is helping him. We’re almost there.” I took a closer look at Dad. He was clutching his chest and his head was pushed back in the seat. His eyes were crushed closed and his mouth was contorted.
What kind of sick is this? I thought to myself.
Dad never gets sick and even when he does he doesn’t stay home. He must be dieing! I began to cry as I realized that I was watching my Dad die. He was sitting right in front of me and all I could do was cry. “I’m sorry Dad.” I said through my tears.
We lived only ten minutes from St. Luke’s hospital, but it seemed like an interminable drive. When we finally arrived, they took Dad and put him on a stretcher. Mom went in with him and told me to wait in the car until she got back. I clutched Pandy until a woman came out to get me. She led me to a white room with a lot of uncomfortable looking chairs. There were pastel pictures of scribbles on the walls and a TV in the corner with the weather channel on.. The whole place smelled like going to get a shot. I hated the smell. I curled up in a chair and waited for Mom. She came out but didn’t say anything.
She doesn’t know how to tell me he died. I desperately tried to hold back tears but they flowed anyways. Mom just placed her hand on my check her eyes swollen with tears.
It wasn’t long before another woman came from where they had taken Dad. She had a nice smile “Now, you can’t go in the room with your Dad yet but I can let you see him. Would you like to see him? He wants to see you!” I nodded vigorously.
He’s not dead!
He walked down a long white hall with silver handles and through a door that opened on its own. She had me stand outside a window that had blinds drawn. I stood there with mom and waited while the nurse went in the room. Then she raised the blinds and there was Dad.
He had tubes sticking out of all of his arms and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. There were these circle things stuck all over him like you see in the show ER. He looked right at me and waved. He looked so tired. He pretended to take all the tubes and wires out. I laughed and waved back.
“See, Lizzy? Your Daddy’s alright!” My mom squeezed my shoulder and we walked back to the waiting room. He didn’t look all right to me but he looked alive! My Dad was alive!
I was only ten and I thought he was leaving me. He didn’t make it this time. I had stopped wiping away the tears four exits ago.
Maybe somehow they’re wrong. Maybe my sister’s boyfriend didn’t understand. Maybe he’s still alive. My husband grabbed my hand and squeezed.
“Lizzy? Honey, I don’t know what to say. For the first time I don’t know what to say.” His voice cracked. Marine’s voices never cracked. I lit another cigarette inhaling deeply.
All those things I never told him. . .
There was blurry image of me as a little girl. I must have been about four years old. I was in Major Magiks for Maggie’s birthday party. I always wanted to go there. I remember being so excited to play. Dad gave me tokens to play the games and I ran to go down the slide. I remember Dad saying “Hey! Don’t forget, Lizzy!” “Okay, I won’t Dad!” And up the stairs I went. It was later, when we were eating pizza, that I remembered I hadn’t given him a hug. I never did get over that feeling of just wanting to give my Dad a hug.
Then there were images of me cuddling with him in his thick brown sweater with big wooden buttons. I distinctly remember curling up in his lap while he watched the news. He was always so warm. Sometimes me cuddling with him would lead to tickles and sometimes to wrestling on the floor. I would laugh until it hurt and tears were rolling my down my big cheeks. If I really got him good he would loose his “eye” and stumble around. “It’s just your glasses Dad!” But he would still walk around like he couldn’t see. I can’t count the times he would hit himself with the door of our food cabinet and dramatically act like he had hit his head. It took me years to realize he was just hitting his hand.
