In My Life

There were many days where, three years ago, it began to dawn on me, despite the fact that I was 37 years old and should have already known this, that my dad might not be invincible.

That this was really happening.

There was the day I got the call that his doctor ordered him, halfway on a trip to see friends, to turn around and go straight to the hospital for emergency chemo, and the attendant thought that he probably never saw his home again.

There was the day I got the call that his doctor ordered him, halfway on a trip to see friends, to turn around and go straight to the hospital for emergency chemo, and the attendant thought that he probably never saw his home again.

There’s the day I arrived from Charlotte and went straight to Toledo Hospital, where I shared some jokes (and a burger) with him for the last time, because the next day he had a medical emergency and was rushed to a surgery that saved his life – for about 25 days.

He was never the same after that day. Neither was I.

There’s the day I went back home, phony-brave-confident that the worst was over, that he was on the mend and that all my worries had been for nothing.

There’s the day my sister Emily and I rented a car and drove 10 hours from Charlotte, fearing that we might not make it in time. That’s the same day I burst into sobs while driving through the mountains of Virginia because “A Long December” by Counting Crows came on the radio.

There’s the day – maybe one of the worst, besides the time “A Long December” made me cry – that my dad’s doctor told him, in front of my mom, my sisters and I that he had fought the good fight for four years, but it was over.

There’s the day I quit my job over the phone because I knew the days ahead wouldn’t allow me to return to Charlotte, to work or to normal life for the foreseeable future.

There’s the day we took him to hospice.

There’s all the smeared-together days – filled with sadness, rage, terror and tears – that he spent in hospice, some 12 in total. Days and nights I spent walking the grounds, sleeping on the floor and trying to protect my family from everything I could.

There’s the day my wife flew into town and the next day when we drove my long-overdue rental car back down to Charlotte, booking a return flight for the next day, so I could turn in my work computer and collect my belongings from my former office.

There’s the day my sister Anna picked me up from the airport – the next day, as a matter of fact – and took me out drinking and then to Taco Bell, so I could blot out the despair for just a few hours.

And finally, there’s the day – really, just hours later – that my mom woke me up in the house she and my dad had shared for a decade, saying she had gotten a call and that we needed to go to hospice now.

There was his last day.

I remember all of these days like they were yesterday. If I let myself – or, rather, if I don’t actively challenge myself to do otherwise – these are the days I remember.

But I’d rather remember my dad like this. Like the guy who sang me the Beatles song that I sing to my own son.

I love you, Dad.