Letter To My Dad

#1 - The Day You Died

Hi Dad,

These letters I’m writing, I hope you’re okay with me sharing them. If you’re not, I’m fairly certain you’ll send me a sign. I’m just woo-woo enough to believe that.

There’s so much to say, and I have to start somewhere, so I’m going to begin at the end. The day you died.

First, I need you to know something. That day, your last day here, when no one was in your hospital room, and I whispered into your ear that I knew you wanted to stay, but that it was okay to go, that Mom and Rob and I would be okay, and that I’d take care of them… please know that’s not what I wanted. But I knew it had to be. I love you so much. And I knew. I knew you didn’t want to leave us, and I also knew you didn’t have a choice. I was trying to make dying easier for you, if that was even possible.

You had spent the summer preparing me for this. Oh, I don’t think it was a conscious thing, but somewhere deep inside you must have known. The trips to Grandma and Grandpa’s graves before grabbing tuna subs and watching The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. Every time we were at the cemetery, you told me that no matter how many years had passed since you lost them, it still felt like yesterday.

For as much as no one is ever truly ready, I guess I was somewhat prepared. And I wanted to make it okay for you to go. And it felt like it was my place to do it, because we belonged to each other. You were my Daddy Mío. Mine for a time, and mine to let go. I was twenty years old, and telling you it was okay to leave us was the hardest thing I had ever done. And after all these years, every single day, I have to convince myself I did the right thing.

The truth is if I thought you could have been even somewhat healthy and could have had a comfortable and happy life, I would have begged you to stay. I was scared to death of a life without you.

I hope you know how loved you were. Old friends came from near and far, and were at the hospital. All of the family was there. When you were admitted this time, people were told to come. There were too many of us to be in the regular waiting room, so we were in the room next to the chapel. You had been in the CCU for three days, and you were hanging on. I don’t know how. You were stronger than anyone realized. And you wanted to stay. God, I hope I did the right thing.

Three days before you died, you felt it coming. You had mom take you to the hospital. You had a heart attack in the waiting room. In the god damn waiting room! You were waiting to be admitted to a place you had stayed half a dozen times before. The hospital had your records. They knew you were Type 1. They knew you were on dialysis. Did they not recognize kidney failure when they saw it? Couldn’t they hear the fluid in your lungs? I hate them for it. I don’t care if I’m not supposed to hate them. I do.

I was away at school. I was out for the evening and returned to messages on the answering machine telling me to come home right away, in the middle of the night. To drive straight to the hospital.

On day three, you had a second heart attack. But then, miraculously, there was improvement. A nurse gave us some words of hope. But no sooner had she left the room, Uncle Howard’s mom said, “It always gets better before it gets worse.” I can still hear her saying that. She was right.

This is when I went in to talk with you by myself. This is when I scratched your head. You always loved that. You could barely speak, but you made out the word “scratch.” This is when, suddenly, your clouded eyes grew bright and clear and you raised your head and shoulders off the pillow and smiled the most beautiful smile. You looked straight ahead at something I could not see, but I could feel. I asked if you saw Grandma and Grandpa, and you said yes. And this is when I let you go.

Your head was back on the pillow when Mom came in. As I was leaving the room, you held her hand, and through all the tubes and medication, you fought to talk. The most loving apology you could muster. “I don’t want to go, Chicken. I don’t want to go, Chicken.” You always called her Chicken.

I went down to the cafeteria and ordered iced tea. You and I always drank iced tea with our tuna subs. And this is when I heard it. “Code blue in the coronary care unit. Code blue in the coronary care unit.” And I knew. I ran upstairs. Your third heart attack. Within minutes, you were gone.

Mom and I went into your room. We held your hands as the warmth drained away. We felt you grow cold. I felt you leave your body. I felt it.

But you hadn’t quite left this world yet I don’t think, because of what happened later that night. Which I will ask you about another time.

I’ll tell you about the rest of that day, and night, and all of it. About Rob not being at the hospital when it happened. About your funeral. About what happened the rest of my college career, and the rest of my life, so far.

But this is enough for now. In a few minutes I’m going to go to the park with Asher, your grandson. He likes to run. Just like you did.

We’ll talk again soon, Dad. I love you. Always.