The truth is, nothing is normal now. It's easy to get wrapped up in psychoanalyzing yourself, and making yourself worried about your mental condition. Normal flew the coop almost a year and a half ago for me, the night I got the most horrible news I could dream of receiving. I've accepted that peoples' notions of "normal" aren't the same as mine anymore. I consider a "good" day to be one where I'm able to pry myself out of bed, and start my day. I consider "normal" to be the black cloud that follows me everyday, and reminds me at the most inopportune moments that my Father is dead. He's gone forever. It hurts to type that out, and it makes me cry everytime. No god, no faith, no medical genius is going to bring him back to me. This is one of those rare times where I get to tell both religion and science to fuck off.
This is the first time I'm opening up in a public forum about what I've dealt with, hoping that this helps me process this unexpected shift in my life. That's the best way I can think of to describe it, as a shift. When I think about the death of my Dad, I think of how deeply he was a part of my life. He wasn't just a guy that helped create me, but he was truly a friend.
Last April my Dad and I went fishing on the opening day of trout season. He was quite lethargic, and complained a lot about all of the walking he had to do. He got caught in some pricker bushes, and got a fishing lure stuck on his vest. I had to get out my knife and cut him free. I became increasingly annoyed with him that day, with his inability to keep up, his inability to be careful, and his inability to stop complaining.
On the way home that day he said to me, "Michael, I can't do this anymore. I'm too sick, I just can't do this anymore."
I was blown away by this declaration of defeat, and it was quite unlike my Dad to admit this. He was a proud man, and his pride seemed to be slowly extinguishing. I truly couldn't believe what he would say next.
"I went to the doctor, and she told me not to make any long term plans, and that my liver is getting worse."
I responded in complete denial, "Bullshit Dad. What doctor would say shit like that to their patient?"
I would find out months later that this was true, that his doctor did indeed tell him things weren't looking good. He knew his health was failing weeks before our annual fishing trip. However, this news didn't stop my Dad. He put my happiness above his, just like he always did. He knew I looked forward to our fishing trips every year, so he refused to let me down. That's the kind of guy he was, and it's the kind of guy I hope to be. Being selfless is the key to life, and everything else is just filler.
Roughly a month after our final fishing trip, on April 28th, 2013, my family gathered at my parent's house for my Mom's birthday. As usual, my Dad cooked an amazing roast with all the trimmings, and bought a sugar free cake from The Pastry Garden for my Mom. The cake tasted like artificial sweetener and Nestle Quick, but my Dad's cooking, as usual, didn't disappoint at all.
When I got home that evening, my sister in law had called me frantically. "Michael, we're taking Dad to the hospital, he collapsed in the yard." I was in shock, "What do you mean? What the hell happened?" She answered, "He collapsed. He got faint, and starting falling over, and your brother ran outside and caught him." "We'll meet you at the hospital", I said frantically.
When we got to the hospital my Dad was concerned, but in good spirits. He was flirting with the nurses, and trying to charm everyone he met. The doctor that night chalked up his fall to his new blood pressure medication. We all breathed a sigh of relief, we were temporarily relieved of our worries.
A week later, on Sunday, May 5th I'd get another phone call, much like the phone call from a week earlier. It was my sister in law again, telling me that Dad was at the ER with unbearable stomach pains. I was quick to arrive there, and thought that this must be another false alarm.
When I arrived Dad told me he'd been in pain since Friday, after going with my Mom to see the new Iron Man movie. He said his pain had gotten worse steadily since then, and it was unbearable now. The doctors that night took x Ra ys, and performed some other tests. He was admitted that night, and he'd never leave the confines of a hospital again.
That week I would stop at the hospital during every lunch break I had, and as soon as I got out of school. On Monday I had shared with my Dad that I was going to ask my girlfriend of 4 years, Alissa, to marry me the following Friday. His eyes lit up, and he instantly became ecstatic. He said, "I love her like a daughter Mike, I'm so happy for you." Right after I told him he had to go in for an endoscopy, so I left shortly after assuring him I'd be stopping by to see him after school. For the first time since as far back as I can remember, he looked genuinely frightened. I'd never seen him scared like that before. However, it felt great to make him smile under the circumstances.
That Wednesday was the worst day, and the worst night I can ever remember having. May 8th, 2013 will forever be remembered as the most gut wrenching day I've ever experienced. When I went to visit my Father on my lunch break that day, he was deathly ill. He was vomiting violently, and he couldn't even keep sips of water down. The look of fear expressed on his face just two days earlier reappeared The room was filled with an aura of uncertainty, the doctors scrambling with their tests and prods, trying desperately to pinpoint what the issue was. I had to leave to get back to school, but I promised him I'd be back that evening with Alissa. He managed to force a smile across his face, and I kissed him on his forehead right at his hairline. The smell of my his forehead and his hair still sticks with me today; the smell of unwashed oiliness mixed with the smell of institutional sterilization. Quite the contrast of smells, hence the reason I can't pry it from my memory.
That evening Alissa and I returned, and Dad was far more ill then he was during the day. The vomiting became almost constant, and the doctors and nurses looked even more concerned. I was so used to things always working out, and my Dad finding an avenue to push through things that it seemed almost impossible that he wouldn't beat this. It's incredible how naive I was then, thinking of my father as an invincible Norse God; a man made of concrete, and not merely flesh and bone. You'd be surprised what coping mechanisms your mind will invent during moments of crisis, and denial seems to be the best way to latch onto your sanity for a bit.
My entire family was in the hospital room that evening, and we were considering moving Dad to another hospital, one more equipped to diagnose his sickness. We all knew something was horribly wrong, and we wanted him to get the best help available. We also all knew (and so did my Dad) that this was being caused by his liver. We thought we could get him transferred to Westchester Medical Center where they have a state of the art liver research center. The doctors told us that wasn't an option, and they needed to do a CAT scan now to get a better idea of what was causing the vomiting. They said we didn't have enough time to transport him, and they had to try to figure out what was going wrong.
My older brother and I walked with my Father down to the cat scan room with the orderly that was assigned to transport him. You could sense the fear in the air, that unease that develops when the unknown envelopes every aspect of your thinking. We tired to make Dad laugh, and at times it worked. However, the fear in his eyes never left, even when he managed to allow a laugh to sneak out of his lungs. The fear was still there, lingering like an unwanted house guest, grasping onto every memory we had made together like a hungry leech. It made our attempts at laughter moot, and just a superficial coating for the bitter truths we knew we were facing.
Once the CAT scan was over, we returned to Dad's room with him. Alissa had to leave for work, and the rest of us had to sit around for the CAT scan results. I kissed Alissa good bye, and I could sense her reluctance to leave. She also knew something was terribly wrong, and insisted on staying. My naivity had me telling her, "He'll be fine, you need to go to work." About a half of an hour later, my brothers asked me to bring my mother home. It was getting late, she was tired, and there was nothing for us to do there but wait. We all figured it'd be better for mom to wait in the comfort of her own home.
Before we left, I walked over to my father, and he looked up at me with tears welling up in his eyes. He was frightened, more than I'd ever seen him frightened in his life. I knew he wasn't scared of dying, he was too tough for that shit. He was scared to leave us all behind, to leave us to fend for ourselves without his knowledge, his love, and his support. Death couldn't scare my Dad, because he faced it so many times in his life before: the death of friends, his parents, and the death he faced halfway around the world in the theater of the Vietnam War. He was ready to go when he had to go, he just didn't want to leave us unprepared for his absence. Once again, he was always thinking about others before himself. That's what made that man special, and that's what gave him heart.
I looked him deep in his eyes, through the saline fog that was now filling my eyes as well, and I told him, "You're going to be fine Dad, you will. I promise you that. I love you so much", and I kissed him on his forehead. He looked up at me and said, "I love you too Michael. I love you so much." I'm so grateful that those are the last words I exchanged with my Father. If there's one thing that has gotten me through this experience, it's knowing that those were the last words he heard me say to him.
Later that night I'd receive a phone call from my older brother telling me they found a blockage in Dad's intestines, and they had to do immediate surgery. It relieved me that they had found the issue, and it gave me hope. I went into my Mother's bedroom and told her the news. She smiled and said, "You see? He'll be fine Michael." I felt the same way she did, and it put me at ease enough to lay down on the couch. I quickly knodded off, exausted from the day's events. I got to dream about my Dad at my wedding, and many more fishing trips.
At around 2:30 am I was awakened by the phone ringing. At the other end would be my older brother, ready to deliver the most devastating news I could dream of receiving. The tone of his voice automatically alerted me to the gravity of the situation. As soon as he said, "Michael" I knew he was about to throw a brick at the glass thin dream I had just had. "Michael, they did the surgery Michael, and it isn't good. Mike it isn't good. He's probably not going to make it Mike, our Dad is most likely not going to make it." My world was fucking shattered, completely and utterly shattered. I was in disbelief, "What the fuck do you mean Daniel? It was a blockage, can't these fucking doctors fix a blockage?" I screamed into the phone. "It wasn't a blockage" he replied. "His intestines are gangrenous, they're rotting inside of him. His liver is rock solid, and it caused blood flow to his intestines to stop. This is all from his liver failing."
I was automatically lost. No words can express how I felt that night, except "lost", that is the best word to describe the feeling. I didn't know what to do, who to call, what to say. My brother told me not to wake my mother, that we would break the news to her together when they all got back. So there I was, processing the likely death of my father, by myself in his home with no one to talk to. Hands down, the worst night of my 37 years on this planet.
Long story short, my Dad remained in the ICU at Vassar hospital for 2 weeks, and he was later transferred by helicopter to Westchester Medical Center where he'd spend another 2 weeks. We all suffered through a month of ups and downs with his condition. None of the doctors ever gave us false hope, and told is all along he had a 10% chance of making it through this ordeal. Well, that 10% eventually got whittled down to 0%, and we removed my Dad from life support on June 7th, 2013 at 1:30 pm. He continued to fight after the life support was removed, but he knew this was a battle he wasn't going to win. He passed away at 3:26 pm that day, with us all around him, holding his hands.
The day of my Dad's death was tough, but it was nothing compared to the night I had gotten the phone call from my brother at the hospital. That's when all of my naive notions, and the image I had of my Dad as an indestructible force were shattered to fucking hell. Losing someone that close to you really helps you understand mortality. It really helps you understand that this is a single ride ticket we've all been given, and there are no refunds or exchanges. It makes you realize that one day, maybe even today, you'll be checking out too. It also makes you realize that everything you do, everything you say, and every hug you give should have mortality as a guiding force behind it.
Everyday I hear my Dad saying to me, "Michael, don't sit around fucking crying, live your life, love your life. That's what I want you to do." All I can say back to him everyday is "I'm trying Dad, I'm really trying."
