Gone, Daddy, Gone

I was standing there with my six month old baby in my arms, swaying and rocking. Joshua was always so hard to keep calm. He was constantly crying. We only lived about five minutes from where my mother worked and thankfully she would come by on her lunch hour to sit with Joshua so I could take a shower. I paced the floor humming to my son desperately waiting for the moment when I could feel the hot water wash away the stress.

The phone rang. My father had stayed home from work that day because he wasn’t feeling well. Since his last heart attack he was weaker, his voice softer, but he always went to work and kept a strong attitude. My dad was not one to back down from anything. He was stubborn as a mule and carried himself with extreme confidence. As a kid, one look from him and I knew my butt was in serious trouble.

I picked up the phone nonchalantly as I continued to bounce my baby in my other arm.
“Hello?” A soft voice came from the other side of the line. My dad said hello back and asked, quite calmly, if my mother had arrived yet. I told him that she hadn’t and then asked if he was okay. He said he was fine and just needed her call him as soon as she got there. He didn’t sound right. Something was different. I told him he didn’t sound good and asked what was wrong. He said he wasn’t feeling well and to just have her call him. When we hung up, I dialed 911. I told them where to go and who to see and to hurry. I ran outside when my mom pulled up and told her to speed home because something was wrong with dad and an ambulance was on its way.

I called my husband at work. I told him he had to come home right away and watch Joshua so I could go to the ER. He said no. Just flat out no. I explained the situation in short quick words and he said he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t even going to ask his boss. I hung up the phone and thoughts fired rapidly through my head. I couldn’t take this child to the ER. They wouldn’t let me see him with the baby. Joshua never stopped crying, how was I going to be able to do this? My neighbor! She just had a baby a month or two before I had. We had spent some time together, she can sit with Joshua! I ran outside and knocked on her door. I told her what was happening and she grabbed her baby girl and followed me inside my house. As I walked into the kitchen to get a bottle out and say a few words to my friend regarding Joshua, the phone rang. I thought maybe it was Ron telling me he had changed his mind and was coming home to take care of the baby. It was my mother.

I hurriedly told her I was on my way. She told me not to come.
“What? No, I’m on my way!” She repeated not to come. I didn’t understand.
“Your daddy is gone.” How much time had passed since all of this started? Wasn’t it just seconds ago? Didn’t she just leave here? Time slowed down to a crawl and every movement was in slow motion. The world around me was a blur. My friend, who had been watching and listening, took the baby from me. I laughed. Yes, I laughed.
“No, see, that can’t be. I am on my way. He’s always bounced back from stuff. He’s fine.” My mother’s tears told me otherwise. This was not possible. I slumped against the wall. I let my arm fall to my side with the phone clutched in my fist. I didn’t cry, I just stood there stunned. Hatred for Ron seeped in. If he had come home when I asked him to, I would have been there before he died. (This was not just an emotional reaction, this was an honest hard cold fact.) I have never forgiven him for that day. I hold grudges, I’m honest about it. It’s part of my personality, part of being a Scorpio.

My neighbor came close to me and she was a fuzzy figure as if I saw her through a foggy lens. She spoke far away, her words were distant and inaudible. I told her I had to go. I had to take Joshua and go to my parents’ house. What else was I supposed to do? What do you do when this happens? I had no script or handbook on how to deal with your father’s death. He was only 63 years old. I was only 25. His youngest grandson who was, at that moment, back in my arms, was only six months old. This wasn’t right.

I remembered when my brother died. I was in college. He was too young and so was I. That wasn’t right either. But, now my dad. No, I wasn’t ready for this.

I put the baby, screaming as usual, into his car seat and drove. There was a mixture of speed and molasses. I had my foot to the floor trying to get “home” as quickly as possible and yet my motions were still so slow and muted.

I got to the house. I pulled into the long driveway and sat there. I was going to walk into this house as I had a zillion times before. But this time it would be different. I didn’t want to go in.

I pushed myself to get out of the car, pick up the baby and go inside. It was quiet, still, empty. I looked around and saw nothing out of place. I don’t remember what I did next. I think I put Joshua in the playpen I had there. I stood in the middle of the house I grew up in. I suppose the shock was setting in, if it hadn’t already.

A thought came crashing into my mind.
Did I say I love you? Oh my god, I can’t remember! What if I hadn’t? The final words of my conversation with him were gone. They still are. I hope I did, but I don’t know. Was I too rushed to get to 911? Was I absent minded about it?

At some point my mother came home. She cried. I asked about what happened. She said one minute the doctor was telling her that he would probably pull through and the next minute he was gone. Was she with him when he died? Did he say anything? What happened? Nothing came after those first words. She didn’t answer. She went off onto other things. She started getting papers together and flew into “must do” mode.

I had to call my sister. How do I do this? How do I say this to her? I stood in the hallway next to the staircase with the phone in my hand. I took a deep breath and pulled my emotions together. I dialed her number at work. I asked for her. Her voice came on the line and she sounded like she knew something was going on. Why wouldn’t she think that? I never called her at work. I have no idea what I said to her, but somehow I got it out. She was in disbelief as well. A few sentences that I can’t remember went back and forth. We hung up.

Did I call 911 in time? What if I hesitated? How many seconds went by…was it minutes, no impossible. I could have hung up faster, dialed faster. Did I say I love you? Did I call 911 in time?

Over and over and over in my head. It still does today. And I will never know the answer.

14 years ago today my father died. It’s still hard. People say time helps. They’re full of shit. This sounds cliché but I think about him every single day. It could be a fleeting thought, a memory of something he said, an idea of what advice he might give, a moment in time, or just the fact that I miss him and wish he was here.

This recount will be continued, it has to be. This is the only way I can lead into my next journey in therapy. I have to get through these final memories in order to go further back in time. I have to start to grieve so that I may dive into our relationship fully. You are welcome on this path with me.