Miss you, old man.
It was two years ago, almost on this very day, that I was awakened by the phone call that would forever change my life.
I had spent the entirety of the night before performing calisthenics with my then ten-month old daughter. She was teething and couldn’t sleep; I would get up, nurse her, get gnawed on, stumble back to bed and crash. Twelve o’clock; one fifteen; two thirty-five. And so went my night.
When my phone rang at 8:15 a.m. I wanted to scream. Somehow my baby was still asleep; I sent out a little prayer that she would stay so. And I ignored the call. Let the machine get it.
The caller hung up.
It instantly rang again.
Hoisting my tired arse off the bed, I answered to hear my sister’s panicked voice. “Trace, mom called. There’s something wrong with dad. Mom thinks he’s had a heart attack.” Internally I rolled my eyes. My father had cardio myopathy and had done very little to keep himself healthy. His on-again, off-again health regime was in off-again mode. This might be the kick he needs to get him started again, I thought. After all, the past five years had been a clutter of similar calls; all turning out on a positive note. Nothing life-threatening, nothing more than a “Harry, you’ve got to address the problem” kind-of thing.
And so I was certain that I was facing the same issue I’d heard several times before. I got off the phone and started to dress myself when the phone rang again. It was my mother.
My mom is universally regarded as the rock of the family. While the rest of us were overly emotional, tending toward hot-headedness or the ability to weep openly over The Barney Song, my mother is like a calm port in a torrid storm. When I heard distress in her voice, I knew my previous eye-rolling was terribly, terribly wrong. “Traci, we’re taking daddy to the hospital. I’ve got to follow the ambulance. Please, I think this is very bad. Please call a priest.”
I was stunned. After spending a few moments convincing her to ride with the ambulance instead of following it, I got off the phone and attempted to dial out. Anything. Anyone. I needed a priest. I needed to find someone who could perform unction.
On reflection, I see that my inability to dial the phone, let alone read the numbers in the yellow pages, let alone find the appropriate section in the damn book was strangely connected to the fact that I hadn’t yet figured out how to put on my pants. I was in shock.
My father had the good graces to die on a Sunday. God love him, fifteen calls to every church and number in the diocese of Fresno revealed that apparently, on Sundays, most Catholic priests already had plans. That was so like my dad.
Nobody prepares for the sudden death of a loved one. Nobody knows that the last time you see them is that last time. Nobody knows the importance of saying I love you, or thank you for my life, thank you for all the support, for loving me and giving me strength, thank you for being the greatest father anyone could ever be blessed with… nobody knows the intense desire, the overwhelming need to say all of these things until the very moment you hear, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
For those that knew him, weren’t we lucky? Weren’t our lives richer for having that salty dog tell us those ribald jokes? For those big abrazos that no one else could ever, ever replicate? For those sweet, loving eyes, that could instantly smile or scold, depending on the occasion? And for that voice, that giant, larger than life baritone, so instantly recognizable and utterly unable to hold a whisper?
About two months before he passed, my father and I had one of those conversations that happens in movies, the turning point conversation where finally, after years of talking around an issue, everything hits the table and you just plain talk. Only our conversation was far-more simple and far-less dramatic than any movie would depict, and frankly, I don’t think either one of us realized we even needed to have it. At the end of our chat, however, I pointed to an old picture of my grandfather. He’d passed many, many years before, and I asked dad if he still thought of his father; moreover, if he missed him. “Every day, Trace. I miss him every day. It’s strange: You never get over the loss; you just eventually come to accept it.”
I understand what he meant. I really do.
I had spent the entirety of the night before performing calisthenics with my then ten-month old daughter. She was teething and couldn’t sleep; I would get up, nurse her, get gnawed on, stumble back to bed and crash. Twelve o’clock; one fifteen; two thirty-five. And so went my night.
When my phone rang at 8:15 a.m. I wanted to scream. Somehow my baby was still asleep; I sent out a little prayer that she would stay so. And I ignored the call. Let the machine get it.
The caller hung up.
It instantly rang again.
Hoisting my tired arse off the bed, I answered to hear my sister’s panicked voice. “Trace, mom called. There’s something wrong with dad. Mom thinks he’s had a heart attack.” Internally I rolled my eyes. My father had cardio myopathy and had done very little to keep himself healthy. His on-again, off-again health regime was in off-again mode. This might be the kick he needs to get him started again, I thought. After all, the past five years had been a clutter of similar calls; all turning out on a positive note. Nothing life-threatening, nothing more than a “Harry, you’ve got to address the problem” kind-of thing.
And so I was certain that I was facing the same issue I’d heard several times before. I got off the phone and started to dress myself when the phone rang again. It was my mother.
My mom is universally regarded as the rock of the family. While the rest of us were overly emotional, tending toward hot-headedness or the ability to weep openly over The Barney Song, my mother is like a calm port in a torrid storm. When I heard distress in her voice, I knew my previous eye-rolling was terribly, terribly wrong. “Traci, we’re taking daddy to the hospital. I’ve got to follow the ambulance. Please, I think this is very bad. Please call a priest.”
I was stunned. After spending a few moments convincing her to ride with the ambulance instead of following it, I got off the phone and attempted to dial out. Anything. Anyone. I needed a priest. I needed to find someone who could perform unction.
On reflection, I see that my inability to dial the phone, let alone read the numbers in the yellow pages, let alone find the appropriate section in the damn book was strangely connected to the fact that I hadn’t yet figured out how to put on my pants. I was in shock.
My father had the good graces to die on a Sunday. God love him, fifteen calls to every church and number in the diocese of Fresno revealed that apparently, on Sundays, most Catholic priests already had plans. That was so like my dad.
Nobody prepares for the sudden death of a loved one. Nobody knows that the last time you see them is that last time. Nobody knows the importance of saying I love you, or thank you for my life, thank you for all the support, for loving me and giving me strength, thank you for being the greatest father anyone could ever be blessed with… nobody knows the intense desire, the overwhelming need to say all of these things until the very moment you hear, “We’re so sorry for your loss.”
For those that knew him, weren’t we lucky? Weren’t our lives richer for having that salty dog tell us those ribald jokes? For those big abrazos that no one else could ever, ever replicate? For those sweet, loving eyes, that could instantly smile or scold, depending on the occasion? And for that voice, that giant, larger than life baritone, so instantly recognizable and utterly unable to hold a whisper?
About two months before he passed, my father and I had one of those conversations that happens in movies, the turning point conversation where finally, after years of talking around an issue, everything hits the table and you just plain talk. Only our conversation was far-more simple and far-less dramatic than any movie would depict, and frankly, I don’t think either one of us realized we even needed to have it. At the end of our chat, however, I pointed to an old picture of my grandfather. He’d passed many, many years before, and I asked dad if he still thought of his father; moreover, if he missed him. “Every day, Trace. I miss him every day. It’s strange: You never get over the loss; you just eventually come to accept it.”
I understand what he meant. I really do.
posted by @traciAWESOME
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