Remembering my dad….

23 05 2008

Weather: High- 58 degrees & overcast/rain.

Weather suits my mood today.

Two years ago on this date, my dad passed away. IT was a result of a botched kidney transplant. Less than six months previously he had been walking me down the aisle, and then he was gone.

I still haven’t processed this. I don’t know if I ever will. My dad and I were close. He was a great advice giver and had a wicked sense of humor, which apparently I’ve inherited from him. Dry, sarcastic…actually British if it needs be said. He always had us in stitches. He was the strong backbone for our family. A brilliant acumen for business and well -read on a mind boggling number of subjects. I caught the research bug from him.Whenever we came over to visit, he always had a new nugget of info for us about some strange event in history or a new scientific discovery he found fascinating.

I tell you this because this is the man I want to remember. Not the man who lost part of his leg to gangrene, who was never able to talk to us the last month of his life because of a tube in his throat, who was in and out of comas and finally felled by a systemic infection that put him through three cardiac arrests before the DNR kicked in and he was just…gone.

I wasn’t at the hospital when he died. I was home trying to sleep. The doctor’s had said it was unsure when his system would finally give out. For all we knew it could  hours or days. Turned out it was hours. We got the call from my mom at two a.m. and rolled out of bed to drive 20 minutes to the hospital.

To this day I cannot get the image of my dad out of my head. I knew he wasn’t there anymore, but I just couldn’t let the facts sink in. After that there were blurry days of funeral planning and helping my mom out. Being the oldest, it fell to me to help make a lot of the decisions. I sucked it up, set aside the emotions I didn’t want to deal with and began organizing the things that needed organizing.

Two years later and I still feel guilty and sad and hurt and part of me refuses to accept that he’s not still in a hospital room somewhere , waiting to come home.

I’ve come to realize that I stuffed all the emotions about this in a tupperware and it’s starting to leak. I never mourned him, not really.

Maybe this time I can.

Me and Dad on my 1st Birthday, circa 1968



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